Lark moves as if he were always finishing a line of poetry — slight sway, feet barely touching the cobbles. He is fawn-like in carriage: quick, lithe, and oddly graceful for someone with curled horns. His leather armor is fitted and worn to a satin sheen along the shoulders but riotously patched with deep violet cloth under the arms and along the hem, a theatrical flourish against the otherwise black-and-white world he prefers. A tattered cloak snaps behind him like a stage curtain whenever wind or a sudden flourish of music strikes; in the high-contrast light it reads almost entirely as silhouette, with only three colors escaping: the glow of his bloodshot red eyes, the violet of his inlays, and the dark rust-red stains crusted on his boots. His horns curl backward like the shell of some sea creature, smooth with faint concentric striations. He plays a slim wooden flute that looks improbably ordinary until he blows; then the wood seems to shimmer and the notes smell faintly of ozone. Unexpectedly, his left cheek bears a child's sticker — a tiny, cracked silver star he never removes — a playful contradiction to the otherwise theatrical danger he projects.