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Threne is but a speck of a man, lamentably slight of both frame and stature. Like the gray-fly, who winds his sultry horn in resounding of eponym, he knows no haste; gliding gently upon knelling wings that float atop the shallow gasps of night into his darkened musings.
Sleek, corvid hair cleaves to nape and ears in undercut— conversely cropped at a blunt slope that parallels the line of his jaw to cease at the crest of his cheek, and pall one enameled eye. Listless eyelids further veil a sloe-hued regard, both restrained and unsettling in its melancholic dissection. Though his deceptively youthful features are striking, Threne couldn’t be deemed classically handsome. Nevertheless, there is a mesmeric stoicism about his wan visage.
Likewise, meager eminence omitted, Threne possesses some eerily whispered ascribe that lures one’s awareness. A realized mirage, kindred to those unnervingly magnetic things that exist on the edge of stolen breath; he beguilingly beckons, and welcomes in silk-slippered silence.
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