Tall and lean with the lithe, deliberate movements of someone used to both city back-alleys and moonlit groves. He favors one sleeve rolled high to reveal a lattice of faded burn and sigil-like scars circling his forearm. His left hand bears an iron ring with a small, permanently smoking coal trapped beneath its glass. He favors walking with a slight tilt toward his left shoulder as if listening to something no one else can hear. When he smiles it is slow and sometimes too late; when he frowns his whole face tightens and his eyes gleam like embers. Unexpectedly, he hums lullabies in a soft alto when threatened, a contradiction to his otherwise rakish posture.