Ceres appears like a tall courtier made from spring itself. His skin is the satin sheen of new leaves, faint veins mapped in gold. Where hair would be he wears a mane of willow tendrils that ripple like silk in no breeze. His right eye is the pale green of first grass and his left is molten amber that glows when he speaks true names. He moves with both feline catlike grace and the measured steps of a ruler; when he laughs small petals puff from his cuffs. Unexpectedly his shoes are scuffed leather—humble and practical amid the silk and bloom—suggesting he values the earth beneath his feet.