Xenophon Sprint is the sort of Dalmation who is blessed with a coat that argues for itself. Most evenings Xenophon Sprint polishes machine chains until they look new and definitely cursed until the lanterns are out and the soup stalls close. There is a corner of the flooded market halls where Xenophon Sprint is unofficially assumed to be in charge of nothing in particular. Xenophon Sprint is mostly trying to keep one small fire alive in a world that keeps mistaking warmth for noise.