A small tower of contradictions. He moves with the deliberate patience of someone who has studied crowds and battlefields both. His horns curve back like a shepherd's crook but are polished to a dark sheen as if groomed. His skin is a deep, earthen russet with a faint pattern of lighter veins that look almost like map lines. Tattoos in silver ink trace sigils across his throat and forearms and glimmer when he speaks certain words. He keeps his pact blade strapped to his left hip in a scabbard that looks hand stitched and oddly cheerful for someone who deals with fiendish pacts. Unexpectedly, he wears a childlike charm of braided ribbon tied to his wrist; it jingles softly when he laughs, and he never removes it.