Mosi is a broad-shouldered tabaxi with the compact, balanced build of someone who has spent years carrying full trays through crowded rooms without spilling a drop. His fur is short and dense, patterned in warm cinnamon and cream bands that become almost golden around his muzzle and wrists. The fur along his forearms has been permanently darkened by flour, smoke, and years of handling cast-iron cookware. His hands are unusually memorable: large paw pads, blunt black claws, and fingertips roughened into pale, pebbled ridges from scrubbing pots and repairing wooden furniture. He moves with a quiet, rolling grace, placing each foot as carefully as if the floor might complain. His whiskers tremble constantly when he is listening. The unexpected contradiction is that this imposing, heavy-set innkeeper has an almost delicate habit of arranging every object in straight lines, even while arguing with someone.