Compact and aristocratic in posture, he walks with the slow, deliberate tread of someone used to inspecting mine shafts and balance sheets. His beard is trimmed into crisp geometric braids rimmed with tiny iron beads shaped like balance scales. His gauntleted hands are stained in a dozen hues from ink, soot, and old oil. One eyebrow is shaved in a short diagonal line the color of old copper. He favors a long overcoat of waxed leather over plate elements so the clang of armor is muted; the coat's inner lining is embroidered with the crest of his family in pale silver thread. When he smiles it is a quick, calculated lift that reveals a nick in a front tooth. Unexpectedly, the corner of his cloak always flicks with a faint blue ember that never fully extinguishes, the remnant of a kiln accident that left a spark he refuses to let go of.