Wiry and spare, Maelin moves with tight, economical motions like a hawk folding its wings. He wears a long, soot-smudged grey coat patched with squares of clockwork fabric and brass rivets. His hands are ink-stained around the fingertips and marred with tiny burn scars from soldering. A narrow pair of spectacles with several interchangeable lenses sit crooked on his nose, and a thin scar runs from his left temple down to his jaw like a punctuation mark. He favors the right sleeve rolled back and fastened to reveal a leather cuff lined with pockets and tiny tools. Unexpectedly, he has a child's paper charm folded and pinned inside his collar, faded and bright at once, which he touches when alone.