"The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-"

Neither born noble nor destined by prophecy, Rasmus Balodis thinks of himself first and foremost as an apprentice. He hopes one day to be remembered as a knight. He is not bold enough to call himself a saint, and not reckless enough to pretend at being a devil. If asked, he might simply say that he tries. He tries to do what is right, he tries to stand when others would flee, and he tries to balance fear with courage. That balance is his compass. He is never given wholly to logic, and never surrendered entirely to passion. He strains to keep one foot upon each stone.At eighteen, he is short and sun-kissed, his body already carrying the early marks of training. His dark brown hair is tied into loose dreads that hang without discipline. His eyes are a vivid and unsettling green. They do not look at a person so much as they look through them, weighing honesty, fear, and intent. It makes some wary of him. Rasmus never wields this gift with arrogance. He thinks of it as a curse, a show of blood tainted with madness of the one who pulled his strings, made a puppet out him.Though still a squire, he bears himself with the contradictions of one already tested. His arms and legs have grown strong from drills. His back is straight from carrying the burdens of duty. There is still boyishness in his gestures. The readiness with which he grins, the nervous energy in his step, and the slight awkwardness of someone caught between youth and the man he wants to become.