Lirien moves like an idea of wind—graceful arcs, sudden stillness, and a smile that arrives a moment after his words. His skin seems threaded with faint silver veins that shimmer when he speaks truth or lies, as if the light inside him is listening. He favors long tailored coats that flare like leaves when he turns, and he wears a circlet of twisted ivy that never wilts. Unexpectedly, one of his hands is slightly mottled and rough, as if raised among thorns; it contrasts with the rest of his lithe, porcelain-like flesh and marks him as both gentleman and survivor. Animals lean toward him but he often stares at the horizon as if reading something only he can see.