Súrali-Myrr appears as an impossible silhouette at first: a tall, slender figure whose features never settle. At one moment they present a human face with high cheekbones and a burnished silver tear beneath the right eye; a breath later the skin melts into scales that catch light like oil on water and an expression that is all curiosity. Their motions are fluid and deliberate, like someone practicing a speech in the mirror — hands articulate too precisely, fingers lingering at the jawline as if testing a new look. They wear a collar of tiny, sewn faces made from porcelain, bone and braided hair that clack softly as they move. When still, Súrali-Myrr's head seems to breathe, as if something behind the mask inhales and exhales slowly. The contradictory element: their eyes, regardless of the face, are always the same — a pair of sunlit coins, bright and empty, which make them unnervingly sincere even when lying.