Leofel moves like two contradictory songs at once sharp and practiced then unexpectedly loose and playful. He favors the still grace of an actor watching a stage rather than the twitch of a thief. His half-elven features are finely cut but weathered; laugh lines and faint scars that trace the pale cheekbone like embroidery. He wears a dozen layered masks hung like bookmarks along his belt each dull silver leafed with inked sigils. When he speaks he often tilts his head then pauses as if listening to another voice he can almost hear. Unexpectedly his left hand is ink-stained, fingers dark with old cipher and tattooing dyes that belie a boyhood spent drawing truthfragments in the margins of forbidden books.