Toll is small even for a halfling, wiry and built for slipping through the gaps others forget exist. His skin holds the pale olive tint of those who’ve spent long winters under gray skies. He wears a patchwork of scavenged furs and oiled leather, a scarf pulled high to his nose, and a pair of cracked goggles perched on his head. A dagger and short sword hang at his hips — both elven make, both suspiciously fine for a wanderer of his means.

Quick-witted and cautious, Toll measures every word like a coin before he spends it.
He has a sharp sense of humor, but it’s often muttered under his breath, as if afraid the wind might carry it to someone listening.
He doesn’t like killing — but he’s a realist about what happens when you don’t move first.

He’s the sort who calls everyone friend but trusts no one until they’ve saved his life twice.