Tobbyn is the sort of halfling who seems to have stepped out of a storybook and into a pickpocket's ring: he moves with the lithe confidence of someone used to staying out of sight but never out of attention. His walk is a practiced lope, shoulders relaxed, hands often tucked inside his vest where a false coin or folded promise waits. His smile is quick, revealing slightly crooked teeth stained faintly from the cheap red wine he favors; he wears two small gold teeth caps on his front incisors, a deliberate flourish. He favors a short, slightly upturned mustache and a thin scar arcs like a comma across his left eyebrow — a souvenir from a tavern brawl long ago. Unexpectedly, he keeps one eye perpetually glittering with a tiny crystal lens (a cheap, hand-polished spyglass lens) attached to a leather string around his neck; when he stares through it in dim light his expression softens into genuine curiosity rather than calculation.