Devastatingly handsome in a way that reads like a fine fraud; skin with the soft translucence of polished ivory, cheekbones cut like porcelain, and a slow, cultured smile that never quite reaches the eyes. He moves with the practiced economy of a dancer trained to be watched, always occupying the right angle of light. His true form is betrayed in small ways: the shadow behind him sometimes has faint, membranous ridges and his pupils narrow to catlike slits when he laughs. Contradiction: his left hand is never unclenched, habitually fingering a battered iron chain link on a leather cord that looks out of place against his expensive silks.