Lord Alerian Molania is a narrow, elderly man whose first impression is of weakness until he begins to speak. His slick silver hair is combed straight back from a high brow, while his full beard is carefully squared and threaded with tiny red ribbons marking family anniversaries. A black silk eyepatch covers his left eye, embroidered with a dull crimson moth. His visible eye is a watery gray, bright and measuring. His skin is parchment-pale across the face but ruddy and weather-darkened over the hands and neck, the result of decades spent inspecting orchards, tenant roads, and flood barriers personally. His fingers are long, swollen at the knuckles, and permanently stained with ink, lampblack, and medicinal redroot. He moves with a frail, careful shuffle, yet his cane strikes the floor with the exact rhythm of a marching officer. The contradictory impression is striking: he looks as if a strong wind might fold him in half, but rooms unconsciously make space when he enters.