Long, slender tendrils slowly but strongly wrapped themselves around the boy. Raised vain, he had no way to overcome it, or know to overcome it. He lifted his head proudly, beautifully, elegantly; yes, very elegantly, and this he knew, he knew even the action of merely lifting his head was beautiful. It had to be so, he knew, his mother told him, his father told him, his grandmother told him…growing up where prestige was everything, and prestige was recognized by presence, appearances were everything. So he carefully carried himself through every motion, large or small, significant or menial, and he was always beautiful.