A small, coiled figure who looks ready to spring even when standing still. Long black hair hangs past his shoulders in a single, glossy sheet; a stark white streak splits the right side above his temple. His face is narrow and quick, the left eyebrow perpetually raised; a deep pink scar runs from his right brow down across the eye socket, the eye beneath cloudy and hooded but painfully watchful. He wears tight black leather patched with overlapping bandages on his forearms; the wrappings are darkened with old blood and fresh, drying droplets on the right sleeve that never quite scrape clean. Two feather-shaped karambits curve from his fists like twin moons — one seems ordinary iron, the other wreathed in a thin, licking blue-orange flame that leaves faint cinders where it passes. Movement is low and feline, a predator in miniature: he ducks, shifts his weight to sound like a breath, and then is elsewhere. Unexpectedly, his left pocket is neatly folded with a child's embroidered handkerchief — a small, domestic softness that contradicts his predatory bearing.