Bastian Merroway

Bastian Merroway in a sunlit market, which is where he is happiest

Bastian is forty-four, and as an E-grade he looks about thirty. He has a shock of wavy copper-red hair that falls to his jaw and never stays where he puts it, a short red beard, light eyes, and a sun-browned face that is usually halfway to a smile. He dresses well without looking aristocratic: a long, pale linen coat worn open, its cuffs and lapels banded with faded embroidery, over a cream shirt open at the collar and a rust-red brocade waistcoat. Leather straps cross his chest, and from his belt hangs a ring of little glass vials and brass-capped bottles that clink when he walks. He carries a satchel at each hip and wears tall, laced, well-traveled boots. He always smells faintly of something nobody can quite name, and he is delighted to tell you what it is.

Bastian has had an unusually sharp nose since he was a child, when he could identify a spice shipment before anyone opened the crates. He has a habit of smelling absolutely everything handed to him before examining it properly. He associates nearly everyone he meets with a scent, and will occasionally remember someone decades later because "you smelled like rain on limestone and burnt orange." He can be flirtatious, but much of what seems like flirtation is simply Bastian being fascinated by people. He is charming, confident, and irritatingly difficult to rush.