Rosco moves with the compact, spring-loaded grace typical of halflings, but his gestures are theatrical and spent with practiced timing. He keeps his drum slung low on a battered strap across his chest and taps a steady, idiosyncratic rhythm on it even when not performing. His skin shows the tan of someone who spends nights on open platforms and day hours in kitchen light. The left side of his face is freckled and ringed with an old, faded tattoo of a tiny quill and notes, an odd contrast with his otherwise carefully maintained festival clothes. When he walks he hums a quiet counterbeat under his breath, and his eyes light like lanterns when he spots a storyteller or a particularly good pun. Unexpectedly, his left boot is patched with a scrap of velvet embroidered with tiny silver stars, a keepsake from a lost lover that seems almost out of place on a tradesman's footwear.