Eudoros is lean and reed-straight, with the air of a man built more by restraint than by muscle. His skin is sun-browned from long walks beneath the white stone of Meletis, and his dark hair has silver threading through it at the temples, always combed back with deliberate care, though a few stubborn strands fall across his brow like stray ink strokes. His eyes are a pale storm-gray, sharp and watchful, and they seem to pause on people as if weighing the value of every word they have ever spoken. He wears layered linen and a philosopher's mantle pinned with an iron clasp shaped like an owl, but the hem is reinforced with hidden stitching for travel, a practical contradiction to his otherwise ceremonial presentation. When he moves, he does so with a slow, measured economy, as if each gesture had first been debated and approved.