Short and springy, he moves with the quick, economical gait of someone who learned to dodge blows and barter faster than he learned to walk. His skin has the usual olive-green goblin sheen but is patterned with a faint latticework of old burn scars along his left cheek and throat, as if a hot brew once flared while he leaned over a kettle. He wears his hair in a tidy row of tiny braids threaded with bright bottle-caps and a single faded coin that jingles when he tilts his head. His eyes are amused and calculating, always watching hands for spilled drinks and for the weight of a purse. Contradictory to his rough exterior, his apron is immaculate, stitched with a neat white line down the center that he irons each morning.