Velith is tall and too still, like a figure carved from moonlit frost and left standing in a chapel cellar. Their skin has the pale translucence of old parchment stretched over delicate bone, with faint shadowed lines beneath it like roots or cracks in ice. Black hair falls in a perfectly straight curtain to the waist, but the ends drift as if underwater when they move. Their eyes are silver-gray, luminous at the edges, and seem to focus more sharply on locked doors, chains, and clenched hands than on faces. They wear layered robes of ash-blue silk over a hard inner harness of polished dark bronze, the softness of a priest and the restraint of a prisoner. The contradictory detail is this: every fold of their clothing is elegant and ceremonial, yet their wrists and throat are ringed with old iron scars that look brutally practical, as though they once belonged to someone kept on a chain.