Thariel moves like someone used to squeezing between stacks of books and beneath low rafters: his shoulders are slightly rounded, his steps precise and economical. He wears a long, oil-dark coat patched with different weaves of damask and sailcloth; the inside pockets are lined with waxed linen and faint chalk rubbings of diagrams. A thin scar traces from his left temple to the base of his ear — it's pale and puckered, the souvenir of a library shelf collapse. He keeps a narrow brass monocle that flips up on a hinge; when down it magnifies his left eye in a disturbingly antiseptic way. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of river mud and cinnamon, as if he alternates between bookstacks and a kitchen he refuses to let anyone see. His fingers are ink-stained, and when he walks he taps his knuckles rhythmically against his thigh — a counting rhythm he claims is 'for punctuation.'