Lyrin moves like someone walking through a crowded market while being followed by secrets. He is small-boned and lithe with the quick coiling motion of a cat about to spring. His skin has the warm olive tone of sun and dust and is often smudged with soot from rooftops and chimneys. Scattered faint white scars cross the inside of his left forearm in a pattern he refuses to explain. His hair is cropped short on the sides but left longer on top, a messy dark mop that always has one stubborn curl falling into his eyes. He wears a mismatched set of scarves tied around his wrists and neck, each a different faded color collected from people he once trusted. When he smiles it is sudden and disarming, but his left eye narrows as if measuring whether the grin will be believed. Unexpected element: he hums tiny nursery tunes under his breath while pickpocketing and sometimes tucks small paper cranes into the pockets of people he helps, as if apologizing for the theft.