Firnix moves like a shadow folded into a trick of the eye—quick, deliberate steps that never seem to make the same sound twice. He stands slightly hunched at doorway height for a gnome, but his posture is spring-loaded rather than frail. His clothing is patchwork practical: a short, battered leather jerkin lined with shimmering thread under the right shoulder, a slate-gray hood that seems to drink light, and high, grease-dark boots with copper studs that wink when he walks. He keeps a brass monocle permanently hooked by a thin chain to his ear; when concentrating it slides over his left eye with a tiny mechanical clack. Unexpectedly, his left palm bears a faint, pale pattern of burn scars that glow with a mote of blue when he speaks of machines or mischief—an odd contradiction to his otherwise soot-streaked, urban look that suggests both scholar and street rat.