The Lord Trim ’l Nior was very tall, at least a hand taller than myself, and I am no dwarf. So this was one of the Lords of the Sidhe. He sat in a comfortable wooden chair on a small dais and in full sunlight. Here was no furtive creature of the darkness, frolicking in midnight woodlands and glimpsed only by the unwary traveller. I almost wanted to ask him how he did. The main colour about him was silver. There was a moonlit luminescence playing through every other colour in his garments. He had a loose white shirt of a texture which made even Her Majesty’s finest lawns seem like sack cloth. His breeches were a shifting silvery blue and his hose pure silver of an intensity that shocked. Sitting loosely on his shoulders and trailing in gathers over the arms of his chair was a day robe of many pale colours and so delicate that it could almost have been a haze or a trick of the light. His fingers, I noticed, were beating a slow rhythm on the chair, whether with impatience or anticipation, who could tell? On his right hand he had a single ring with a vast stone of deep crimson. I have heard men talk in tales of objects worth a king’s ransom. This was surely such an object. His hair, strangely, was a light brown, a human brown, indeed, and short with very little sign of dressing or care. How different from the womanish concoction of our guide. I have left his face until last. Such a powerful gaze and one so absolutely certain of its own authority. I would be foolish to attempt much of my pertness here, but pertness will always out. The eyes, as ever, were inhuman, incapable of tenderness or humour. Their colour, if you can believe me, was a dark burgundy-purple.