Captain Jafar ibn-Kian is a broad-shouldered, sun-burnished man whose presence seems to arrive several seconds before he does, announced by booming laughter, jingling coins, and the perfume of cardamom oil. His skin is rich copper-brown, weathered across the cheeks and forehead by years of high-altitude glare. A magnificent black-and-silver mustache curls upward like two storm clouds caught in a favorable wind, each end stiffened with wax and decorated with a tiny brass bead. His merry eyes are quick, dark, and calculating, constantly measuring exits, hands, pockets, and the emotional temperature of a room. He moves with theatrical swagger on solid ground, but becomes eerily graceful aboard an airship, stepping across tilted decks as if gravity were merely a suggestion. His fingers are thick and ringed, yet nimble enough to open a lock while applauding a performance. The unexpected contradiction is that his flamboyant clothing and thunderous manner conceal an almost monk-like stillness whenever he hears the name of a lost pilot.