Tzintli is a lean young man whose confidence enters a room several seconds before he does. He wears his seven-league boots with absurd care, polishing their cracked red leather until they shine like wet fruit, while every other piece of clothing has been patched, re-stitched, or borrowed. He moves with a loose, bouncing stride that abruptly becomes perfectly still whenever someone lies to him. His grin is quick and crooked, and one canine tooth is capped in dull brass. His hands are sun-browned and callused, but his fingernails are meticulously clean. The contradictory impression is impossible to miss: he looks like a reckless roadside bravo, yet he folds blankets, maps, and letters with the tenderness of a meticulous housekeeper.