A small figure wrapped in ragged, half-rotten layers of cloth. The cowl of his filthy cloak is pulled low, shadowing most of his face, but when his mouth moves a mischievous, secretive smile flashes between cracked and yellowed teeth. His bandaged hands are stained with ink, ash, and something that looks like dried starlight. Ragged boots are laced with lengths of twine and buttons he scavenged from a dozen lifetimes. Hanging from his right hip is a bone-white wand the length of a hand, polished on one edge as if someone once fidgeted with it constantly. A finely bound journal hangs on his left hip, its leather patched with vellum scraps and stitched with silver thread. When he walks he shuffles with an exaggerated caution that belies a spring in his step. Unexpectedly, tucked into a tear at his elbow is a bright silk ribbon embroidered with tiny clockwork gears, pristine and absurd against the decay.