Jareth Reynard is a dashing human man in his early forties whose first impression is polished extravagance, though the second is usually calculation. His neatly trimmed dark hair is combed back with a faint wet shine, and his rakish mustache is waxed into two precise points. His easy smile arrives half a heartbeat before his eyes do, as if even his expressions are filed in advance. He moves with a dancer's economy, never quite walking in a straight line when a graceful diagonal will do. In a crowded room, his eyes constantly count exits, hands, ledgers, guards, and unsecured doors, while his face remains fixed on whoever is speaking. His breathing is slow and nearly silent when calm, but becomes audibly measured through his nose when rattled. The unexpected contradiction is that his flamboyant clothing and jeweled rapier conceal a remarkably austere body: he is lean, sinewy, and almost monkishly disciplined, with none of the soft indulgence his lifestyle suggests. He leaves behind the impression of a man who has already sold the room's future and is waiting to see who notices.