Fendrel moves like someone used to being surrounded by half-built machines: careful, slightly hunched at the shoulders, eyes constantly refocusing between near work and the room beyond. He keeps his left forearm encased in a lattice of brass filigree and leather straps that hum faintly when he speaks. His shop-smudged apron is embroidered with a tiny chess rook stitched in copper thread, and his right sleeve is always rolled up to reveal faint burn scars and a thin silver band tattoo coiling around his wrist. Unexpectedly, he wears a small silk scarf pinned under his chin that has a childish pattern of timber ships—an odd, almost tender contrast with his soot-darkened fingernails and pragmatic tools.