Eirwyn Taliesin is a narrow-shouldered human with the weathered look of someone who has slept beside too many open graves. Their movements are careful and economical, but never timid. They lean slightly forward when standing, as if listening to footsteps beneath the floor. Their hands are broad, scarred, and permanently stained around the fingernails with blue-black soot. A soft, almost grandmotherly face is set beneath a crooked nose and a brow furrowed by years of interrupted sleep. The unexpected contradiction is their smile, which is warm, dimpled, and genuinely infectious, even when they are describing things that should make the blood run cold. They leave behind the impression of a person who has already survived the worst thing in the room and is quietly worried that it followed them inside.