Prexijandilin moves like a stage curtain ringing with flame: measured, theatrical, and always timed to draw the eye. His scales are burnished crimson that catch lamplight into coppery sparks; near his jawline the scales are finer, almost smooth like glazed pottery. He wears a half-mask of mirrored brass that flips up when he smiles and down when he wants the room to hush. He carries four instruments slung across his back — a short lute, a battered horn, a set of leather-wrapped bagpipes, and a didgeridoo carved with tiny runes. When he walks he favors a slight bow in the shoulders as if preparing a flourish; yet his tail is restless, flicking once like a conductor's baton at unexpected moments. Contradiction: his movements are lavish and attention-seeking, but his left hand often fingers a small, plain iron coin he keeps in his palm — an anchor of humility invisible to most.