At first glace, the mask itself seems no different, aside from being white as snow. But a closer look reveals a pattern of scales, fine and soft to the touch. If it weren't for the texture, they'd be like a second skin almost. Golden eyes have changed, lightening as pupils morph into slits, an identical copy to his brother's.
The first and most obvious thing is the cloak around him, white feathers splattered with red splodges that can be nothing but blood. It splits to make it seem like his arms are wings, and the end trails in such a way it seems like a bird's tail. The effect would be pretty and very like Akito, if it weren't for the blood and for the fact the feathers are ruffled and unkempt, many of them broken and several looking like they would fall out at any moment. If he were a real bird, flying would be impossible.
His true wings are hidden, tight against his back as if they weren't there at all.
A collar circles his neck, thick leather that binds. A short chain leads from it, and if one were to examine it, it's easy to realise that a sharp tug on the chain would pull the collar tighter, cutting off his air. He ignores the collar, as if it weren't there, but occasionally a hand rises to touch the chain gently.
His hands are covered in the same second skin that the mask itself is, gloves perhaps. Whatever it is, his nails no longer exist as such, instead becoming huge curved claws, serrated slightly on the inside. It is clear that they could do serious damage if used. Both they, his hands and the edges of his sleeves are splattered with old blood. At one time, they were very clearly used to devastating effect.
When the cloak is swept aside, it reveals light chains that criss-cross his body. They do not bind anything, but the amount of them makes them heavy. The ones around his legs are looser, as if they have been slowly worked at, but they still cling to him. Those on his torso are tight, restraining. Strangely they are clean, as if well kept, compared to the boy underneath.
The only other change is perhaps the harshest, for it is simply that the light wears no shirt. The silver chains make him shiver from their cold temperature. On his skin, scars are revealed for all to see. Some are old, others newer. Nearly no patch of skin is untouched, physical scars in a variety of harsh purple blotches, while mental scars stain sections in blistering reds.
And yet for all the changes, he seems the same friendly child he always was. Or at least, he seems to. Eyes are sharper, noticing everything and remembering it. His posture is better, confident and relaxed in himself. There is a feeling that comes from him, that he is very aware of the damage he could do, and that he cannot be harmed easily. He is not afraid, not of you, nor of this place.
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