He moves like a cat that has learned to be polite in salons. His horns curve backward in a tight crescent, polished black where they sweep from his temples and pitted near the tips. Skin is a deep ashen maroon that, in certain oils and lamps, reads almost like burnished copper. A lattice of faint silver scars runs from his left shoulder across his chest, the thin pale lines like a map of a long-closed wound. His eyes are the kind of gold that makes people guess his fortune rather than his mood. He wears a single brass ear cuff shaped like a broken key, and his left hand is wrapped with several rings of odd provenance. Unexpectedly, when he laughs, the sound is high and almost girlish for a second before it slides back into a low, cultured chuckle.