His pace is that of a meanderer.
A casual, comfortable stroller across the secret folds and creases of Night's fiefdom.
Footfalls silky but ironshod, hurling deliberate echoes high into the mazy dark.
Careening off masonry like black, blind moths.
Mien a challenge to any lingering martinets of the Burning Houses . And a simple admonishment to Hands and Fingers that might feel emboldened, fool-like, by drink or herb.