He moves like an unfolding letter of etiquette. Every motion is measured and precise, as if he has rehearsed politeness to the point of art. His skin is a deep, warm umber with a faint, almost metallic sheen in candlelight. Horns sweep back from his brow in graceful spirals, lacquered black and tipped with a single gold filigree band on the right horn. His left cheek bears a pale seam of scar tissue that is not entirely physical; when he smiles the seam seems to shimmer with a faint violet motes of ash. In daylight his eyes are a polite, reflective silver, but in low light the pupils slit and a thin ring of burning purple appears around the iris. He favors slow, intentional gestures: a hat removed with two fingers, a fan of cards fanned with exacting precision. The contradiction is the tiny, impatient motions around his mouth and his hands tapping in a rhythm no one else hears. On the back of his right hand, just at the base of the thumb, is a modest tattoo of a broken coin that he hides with gloves or sleeve when he can.