A small, deliberate flame of a man. Skin the color of old cinnabar, not matte but pitted like weathered copper. Horns curl back from his hairline in a smooth sweep, one horn nicked and filled with a silver filigree inlay. His left hand is wrapped in fingerless leather stained with ink and oil, the right hand always clean enough to pass for polite company. He moves with a restlessness that seems rehearsed, a soft, catlike tread that contrasts with quick, jittery gestures when he speaks. Around his throat hangs a thin iron chain bearing a tarnished coin; if watched closely the coin's image shifts between a child's face and a goat. Contradiction: his clothing is meticulously tailored and patched in flawless seams, yet he rarely uses the same pair of boots two weeks in a row and they always look accidentally suitable for the road.