Perrin is short even for a halfling, standing at just over three feet, with a tumble of mossy-brown curls kept too neat for an adventurer. His skin is the warm hue of freshly turned soil, with softer, well-manicured hands that look more apt for signing scrolls than wielding a blade. Perrin dresses in sharply tailored, bottle-green waistcoats over starched shirts, his scarlet silk neck scarf tucked in just so. His left ear is adorned with a cluster of delicate gold earrings, while an intricate tattoo of a thorned vine runs up his right palm: a mark from an old trial-by-ordeal. Despite his courtroom composure, his feet are always bare, soles ink-stained from late-night scribblings—a jarring contrast to his otherwise immaculate look. When he moves, his posture is upright but his gaze—restless and fiercely attentive—never quite settles, as though measuring unseen possibilities in every room.