Ivo Gearhart

Ivo Gearhart in a glasshouse, holding a flower nobody has grown in a very long time

Ivo appears to be a young man in his late twenties, though the delicate wear along his joints and plating suggests a far longer life than his face implies. His face is smooth ivory, fine as porcelain, crossed by thin seams of gold where plates meet or where old cracks have been mended, one of them running from his hairline down across his brow and cheek. His hair is a loose mop of dark brown curls, his eyes are a soft gray-green, and he wears a patient, faintly amused smile. Below the jaw the resemblance to skin ends: his neck is a column of exposed brass and gold workings around a softly glowing teal stone, and his forearms and hands are ivory plating over gold joints, with small gears turning at the elbows and wrists. He dresses like a working gentleman, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, a slate-blue waistcoat embroidered with gold vines, a leather strap across his chest, and a heavy belt hung with tool pouches, fine brushes, brass instruments, a pair of work gloves, and a small glass orb on a chain. More often than not, he is holding a plant.

Ivo is courteous, thoughtful, and quietly amused by organic impatience. He speaks gently, handles delicate objects with almost reverent care, and has a habit of going completely still when thinking through a puzzle, so completely that people sometimes ask whether he has stopped working. He does not seem cold, however. If anything, he has grown more personable with time, developing a fondness for living things, especially flowers and people with genuine curiosity. He is as comfortable in a glasshouse as he is in a tomb.