The Tally Ghost's form is semi-transparent, woven from columns of shifting numbers and the faint, glowing lines of ledger paper. It carries a spectral quill that writes with frost, and a heavy iron-bound book chained to its wrist that records without cease. Its touch is not cold, but unnervingly neutral, like the surface of a polished counter. It emits no sound but the faint rustle of turning pages and the occasional, soft chime of an imaginary cash drawer closing. It can split its attention infinitely, appearing simultaneously to every group on the course, ensuring no action goes unrecorded.

An eternal auditor of the Timmons grounds, the Tally Ghost ensures no throw, no wager, and no moment of potential profit escapes notation. It translates the fluid poetry of flight into rigid columns of data, enforcing the mindset that value is derived solely from measurement and exchange. Its presence is a lingering curse of the Counting House philosophy, a reminder that when sport becomes commodity, even ghosts are put to work as accountants.