Ash-gray skin like old parchment, etched with faint ink-lines that run in the angles of latitude and longitude. Horns curve back in a graceful crescent; the left horn is fractured and bound with thin copper wire threaded with tiny compass shards. His right eye is a clear, stormy slate; the left is milky from a ritual scar and looks at maps rather than people. He wears a patchwork cloak sewn from map fragments and weather-beaten sailcloth; the inside is lined with pockets filled with needles, tacks and powdered charcoal. His fingers are broad and calloused but bear the soft stains of an artisan—inks that never seem to wash out. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of citrus and sea salt, as if he has just stepped off a dawn harbor despite the infernal marks on his skin.