Theodore Senethril looks like a man carved from cooled furnace brass and old regret. His skin is sun-browned and lightly freckled with dust-gold specks that cling to the seams of his hands and collar. His black hair is worn back in a severe ribboned queue, but a single pale streak near the temple refuses to be tamed, as if moonlight got lost in it. He stands a little too straight for comfort, with a narrow, watchful face, a mouth made for restraint, and eyes the color of storm-polished amber. His movements are careful and economical, yet when he is angered he becomes unexpectedly graceful, almost dancer-like, as though fury has taught him elegance. He dresses in a crisp mayoral coat of dark indigo linen lined with sand-yellow silk, with brass buttons etched in the shape of dunes, but he wears a cracked leather glove on his left hand that suggests either injury or shame.