Amalriv moves like a man used to being waited upon: slow, deliberate, and cushioned by layers of velvet and sash. He is rotund to the point of architectural — a broad, domed belly that strains against silken robes; when he walks his gait rolls in a steady rhythm as if he is always being measured by coin. His face is triangular and cadaverously smooth in the way of many drow elders, but his cheeks are plump and his jowls soft; a thin, pale scar tracks from the base of his left ear to the corner of his mouth, the souvenir of a knife that found him during the civil war. He wears innumerable rings, each set with a different red stone or black cusp, and a heavy, ornate chain of office that reads as both a tax ledger and a talisman. Amalriv’s motions are often punctuated with the faint, metallic jingle of coin and charms. Unexpectedly, he favors a battered straw sunhat — a surface-dweller affectation that looks awkward on the underground streets and makes him appear almost comically out of place, a contradictory hint of whimsy or mockery of surface manners.