Drin’s hair is beautiful in the shaft of sunlight. Little flecks of brilliant reflection splinter along his beard and drape down around his ears as he looks down at what he’s reading. A kind of halo of white flares around his head in a corona as the breeze moves wandering loose hairs, like a dandelion clock. It’s surprisingly whimsical of him, when the rest of him is so solid and stoic and reliable all of the time. A Brian Froud fairy, full of sly smiles and practical jokes, lurks under the pragmatic gaze, hidden in the little amused twinkle with which he views most of the world. There’s the extra sparkle of devilman in there when he’s looking back at Emma, or at Dance. They get to see the flashes of wild man that was perfectly obvious back when he was a kid.