A broad-shouldered drow whose presence reads like an accusation dressed as etiquette. He stands like an anchored barge even when the room thrums; movement is deliberate, never rushed. His forehead is low and his scalp has receded to a horseshoe of iron-gray hair. A streak of silver runs through the remaining hair above his left temple as if scorched. He wears small square spectacles that sit on the bridge of a hooked nose; the lenses are perpetually fogged at the edges from cigar smoke. The skin on his face shows deep creases like ledger folds, and the veins of his forearms are thick as ropes. When he smiles it is practiced and thin, the sort of smile that arranges teeth to look friendly while revealing nothing. Unexpected element: he always has one lacquered porcelain teacup tucked at his belt, despite never drinking anything but whisky-flavored tobacco smoke in public.