Datomir moves like a man who has practiced both grace and survival. He is pale as bone, almost luminous in moonlight; his hair is a fall of white, cropped into a warrior's cut at the back but long enough in front to sweep across one cheek when he tilts his head. His skin is very smooth but lined at the temples and around the mouth from years of squinting beneath underground flames. He favors clean, deliberate movements and stands as if he is listening for a command he has vowed to obey. Unexpectedly, when he relaxes in private, he tends to hum a low, almost childish lullaby under his breath — an old habit he cannot place. In sunlight, the silver-inlaid runes on his helm and sword faintly bloom, and tiny motes of light drift from the edge of his blade like embers in a breeze.