Shamil assumed that Ehlias Kehn Arndstvel, metal smith to the Eyrie, must have once possessed hair much the same as Tolveg’s, given that they hailed from the same realm. If so, there was no evidence of long golden locks on the pink-and-purple globe of his head, nor even the smallest hair as far as Shamil could tell. There seemed to be scarcely an inch of his broad, muscle-thick frame that hadn’t received either a scorch or a burn severe enough to discolour or pucker the skin. His face was further testament to a life rich in injury, one milky white eye stared out from a socket crisscrossed by deep rents in the surrounding flesh. Despite it all, Shamil found him the most cheerful soul in the Eyrie, his voice raised in unending song as he worked, often providing a counterpoint to the ringing
