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.

He also is an incredible liar.