Quorin Wispfoot stands four and a half feet tall, a compact harengon whose tawny fur catches the firelight like autumn leaves, his white muzzle twitching with every half-heard melody. A notch mars the tip of his left ear while three silver rings thread the right, jingling softly when he tilts his head to listen. He dresses in a faded burgundy tailcoat over a checked waistcoat and ruffled shirt, paired with simple green britches, and always carries an ornate lute case slung across his back. A small brass bell hangs from a ribbon at his wrist, its chime marking the rhythm of his steps. Raised among the canvas booths of a traveling fair, he once mended puppets and learned to fiddle between shows until one twilight led him through a hedgerow gap to a revel that outlasted the fair’s dying fires. There he rang the bell and heard answering voices from within it, voices he now believes belong to the dead. Quorin wanders from village to village, coaxing their tales into song laced with the sly tricks of the Fey, yet the voices grow fainter with each telling and demand ever stranger payments. His notched ear flicks at unseen sounds, and he hums constantly under his breath, a habit that draws both coin and suspicion. The bell remains his only constant companion, its ring both key and curse as he seeks the final story that might silence them all.