Aramis carries himself with the compact, precise movements of a man who has spent years leaning over workbenches. He stands with a slight forward tilt as if listening to the world for loose gears. His horns curve back and outward like dark polished ram horns, each ring notched with tiny runes that glow faintly when he works. His skin is the deep indigo of twilight, freckled with minute silvery scars where solder flared and tools bit. He keeps one sleeve always singed along the cuff, an honest badge from his workshop. Unexpectedly, he favors soft, velvet-lined gloves under his battered leather gauntlets, a contradiction of gentleness and utility. When he walks his tail moves with an inquisitive curl and his boots click in a quick, deliberate cadence that makes people unconsciously time their steps to him.