Endymion moves like someone who expects the floor to surprise him. He favors quick, light steps and often tilts his head as if listening to an invisible audience. He keeps a satchel of glass vials and a battered spellbook looped at his hip. His hands are faintly stained with old dyes and acid scars that catch the light like cracked glaze. He wears a waistcoat with pockets stuffed full of folded notes, a brass monocle hinged to a leather strap, and a pair of mismatched gloves; one thick and soot-darkened, the other delicate and fingertipless with burn marks. Unexpectedly, his laugh is calm and slow, a low chuckle that contrasts with the bright mischief in his eyes.