John Toad
The ugliest dwarf in Sigil is practicing his tai chi in the center of the room. He moves without any real grace; his precision is the certainty of stone, rocks sliding against rocks, limbs held in place by muscle alone. His hands are enormous: strangler’s hands, with knuckles like pebbles thrusting up out of his weathered grey skin. He turns, and turns again, balanced on the balls of his feet. His brows jut out over his eyes. He stares, angry, at the world. ...