His mouth, when he was not speaking, was too still. Lips perfectly composed, no small breath-movements at the seams, as though breathing were a voluntary performance he was currently choosing not to give.
His hands, resting on the dragon skulls, were immaculate — but the nails were a fraction too long, a fraction too pointed, and the fingers curled around the horns of the skulls with an articulation at the knuckle that was not quite human. He blinked. But only one eye at a time. Alternating. Left, then right, then left, in a measured rhythm that had nothing to do with the moisture of the eye and everything to do with the courtesy of blinking for a guest who might otherwise find it disturbing.
His eyes were red... a deep, rich blood-red while the pupils inside it narrow and perfectly vertical.
He was dressed for a century Phei had only read about.
