Kestyr sits half-slouched on a weathered stool beneath a single guttering lamp, the rimlight catching the polished facets of two obsidian gauntlets strapped to his forearms. He wears sleeveless deep obsidian studded leather, the inside rimmed with dark fox fur so worn it gleams like silk where his shoulders brush it. The leather itself seems almost velvety but with the severe glint of volcanic glass; faint hairline runes are etched along seams, full of soot and oil in their crevices. His hood hangs loose at his back and his sleeves are conspicuously absent, revealing forearms inked with a map of scars and a single white line that looks like lightning beneath the skin. From the center of each gauntlet a crystalline vial sits nested in metal—when he concentrates thin red blades of energy hiss into being along the gauntlets' edges. He favors slow, deliberate movements when examining work—fingers twitching like a pickpocket's even when idle—and yet his gaze is always calculating, as if measuring a room for exits and misdirection. Contradiction: despite the hunter’s poise he keeps a child's brass music box tucked in his waist, which he winds and listens to with a weird, almost tender smile when the work is done.