Wick is a small clockwork figure — barely half the height of the long table in The Lighthouse's Common Room — built from brass and dark wood, moving on a single ball bearing at his base rather than walking, almost silently. One eye is fixed amber glass; the other is a telescopic lens that extends slightly when something has his attention.
He knew all four of the party's names before introductions — full names, unprompted — and said the Bear's name too, though nobody had told him it. Asked how, his answer was the same every time: "Master Solven keeps me informed." His lens stays extended a beat longer than the sentence needs.
He tends a small brass tea timer that resets itself on its own schedule and dings without explanation. He served tea from a tray — one cup set apart from the rest, clearly Vell's, clearly a different brew — with a dry comment or two but no drama.
When the party asked him directly where they were, he told them plainly: within The Frame, at The Lighthouse, the point of origin for every thread. Asked why they'd been chosen, he was just as direct the other way — he doesn't have that information. Asked how long he's been doing this: about thirty years.
He speaks with careful, formal precision — full names, no nicknames yet — and stayed behind when Vell went to ready the sending room, opening a door to show the party the grounds outside and staying on for whatever else they wanted to ask. Not everything gets an answer. When a question gets close to something he won't say, the lens extends, or his hands find something to do.