Elion moves like a man permanently amused by the world. He keeps a deliberately rumpled elegance: a shoulder-length coat that seems to shift subtly in hue when he walks, a stain of impossible color on one cuff (he will claim it's a failed experiment), and a brass monocle with spinning lenses set in filigreed frames that he peers through more for habit than need. His hands are ink-stained and scarred in faint, geometric patterns—old arcane burns that have calcified into pale ridges. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle into different-sized crescents, a small asymmetry that makes him seem more alive. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's red ribbon tied to the inside of his cloak hem; he keeps it folded and never admits why.