Fizzle is an elderly rock gnome woman with a wiry frame that seems assembled from bundled cables and stubbornness. Her skin is weathered like pale river stone, creased around the mouth from decades of laughing at disasters. A wild crown of white hair fans around her head in electrically frizzed tufts, each lock stiff with salt, soot, or copper filings. Over her left eye sits a complex stack of brass-rimmed magnifying lenses, some clear, some smoked, and one filled with slowly rotating blue fluid. Her left leg is enclosed in a heavy brass-and-leather mechanical brace bolted into a reinforced boot. It clicks, hisses, and occasionally emits a tiny puff of steam, yet she moves with astonishing speed, scuttling sideways around workbenches like a delighted spider. Her right hand is usually stained black with grease, while her left is unnervingly clean and delicate, used for tuning instruments and touching broken machines as if taking their pulse. She leaves behind the contradictory impression of a cheerful grandmother and a loaded siege engine.