The Tower was--or appeared to be--a not-too-tall man in his early forties, with waxy, black hair and cocoa eyes. He had constant five o'clock shadow, fingers like a surgeon, and a swimmer's build. I'd once thought him the most beautiful man in all creation.
He stood before me barefoot in silk pajamas. The vulnerability was an affectation. The clothes buzzed with powerful wards. He probably could have bounced bullets off his chest or survived a jump from the patio ledge.
While some Arcana still existed on dangerous fringes, like the Hanged Man or the Fool, most had learned to mimic humanity. Arcana like the Tower mimicked it flawlessly. They had embraced and flourished in their exposure to the human world.
The Tower was a renowned artist, a politician, and an entrepreneur. He had been the old monarchy's spy and executioner for centuries, and he held our people together when the royal court failed.