Lethargic and leather-clad were the simplest words to describe Elijah Reid, a man with a few grey hairs creeping up his jaw and who had remained in good health despite the impression that he was a few years past his prime and spent too much time tempting fate. The fact that he could most often be seen chewing on a cigarette if he wasn't busy imbibing spoke much of the nerves he needed to calm and his trouble with allowing his idle hands to become the Devil's playthings.

His haggard, faded hair and the wide-brimmed hat concealed the Brythonian's pale eyes and did little to make him appear friendly, but the latter kept the world at bay; whether sun, rain, or eye-contact.

The air of a professional problem solver was about him, perhaps due to his tendency toward dark, earthy tones and leather which expressed practicality over personality, or maybe because of the predatory cadence which empowered his every step into the crooked alleys of Seaforth.