Stooped shoulders from decades spent bent over eaves and ladders. Merek's face is a map of parallel lines—micro-scars, sun creases and a deep furrow across the bridge of his nose where a slate shard once nicked him. He wears a battered leather cap with one ear flap always folded up and a faded guild emblem stitched crookedly over the brow. Fingers thick and callused, his nails are perpetually stained with pitch. When he moves on the rooftop his steps are small and sure, like a creature that learned balance before it learned to walk on level ground; when he storms through a tavern he shuffles, wheels and sneers, creating more sound than the chair he nearly breaks. Unexpectedly, he keeps one immaculate item: a satin-lined, polished brass toolbox he treats with near-reverence amid his otherwise scuffed and patched clothing.