Moritz is a broad-shouldered molefolk with velvety brown fur that has gone silver around the muzzle and wrists. His hands are oversized, blunt-clawed, and permanently packed with pale clay beneath the nails. He stands with his weight sunk forward into the balls of his feet, as though listening through the floor, and when he waits he gently rocks from heel to toe without seeming aware of it. He takes up more space than his modest height suggests, leaning close to smell tools, walls, and strangers. His fur looks soft enough to pet, but his work clothes rasp like old rope against it. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate mouth: he keeps his small cream-colored teeth polished with mint root, a fastidious habit learned from a grandmother who believed a clean smile could save a bad negotiation.