Irix of the Brass Horn moves like a performer who never stops scouting the exits. He is a lean tiefling with burnished bronze horns polished to a dull mirror sheen, a constant half-smile, and a long tail wrapped in red cord to keep it from betraying his mood. His skin has the warm tint of old copper, textured with faint scale-like freckles across the shoulders and collarbones. One eye is gold and cat-bright, the other a cloudy gray from a childhood injury, yet both seem equally watchful. He dresses in patched circus leathers lined with hidden pockets, but over them he wears a faded velvet ringmaster coat that is far too elegant for practical fieldwork, creating a striking contradiction between swagger and utility. When he stands still, he looks harmless; when he moves, every part of him says he has already measured the room and chosen the best escape route.