Broad-shouldered and always moving with a restless, predatorlike economy, he looks like he should belong in a pit arena. His face is a road map of old stitches and sunburned leather; one cheek bears a faint, puckered white line that angles down like a permanent smirk. He favors half-shaved heads with a long, wiry tuft that he braids with tiny metal rings. His movements are quick and loose, as if every step is a joke he is about to tell. Unexpectedly, he wears a faded ribbon on his left wrist with a tiny painted theatre mask tied to it. The ribbon is neat and a little out of place amid the rough gear, which makes him seem oddly sentimental for such a blunt man.