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Hair and eyes the dark of shadows in folds of skin, silk; scarred, but to no degree of ugliness. And the complexion of pottery, desaturated, delicate. Tattered uniform gathering dust in every crease, clinging to his now-warm flesh, a grim swaddle. No gentle turn unto the Earth but the knowledge of war. An emotional virgin, and a virgin from every other angle. The colour of sooty, industrial skies with the temperament to match. But there is more to him than that; he has not always been human.
