Vaelith moves with an unsettling grace, his lithe frame often giving the impression he might blend into shadows or melt into a crowd with unnatural ease. His skin seems almost translucent in certain light, the faintest hint of luminescence tracing his angular cheekbones and temples like veins of moonlight. Around his eyes lie dark, almost bruise-like hues, as if he never fully escapes the twilight of the Feywild. His sharp, upturned ears peek through a wild mane of ash-silver hair that drapes unevenly and feels almost like fine spider silk—soft yet unnervingly cold. Despite his ethereal look, a streak of dirt-smudged green moss clings stubbornly to the backs of his hands, a living testament to his fading connection to the natural world. Curiously, a single fluttering chrysalis-shaped birthmark sits just beneath his left clavicle, shifting slightly in color as if subtly alive. When he walks, his steps are whisper-soft but never hesitant, as if he’s always listening to another world just beyond the veil. The contradictory presence of faint, almost mechanical tickings under his breath when particularly nervous adds an eerie, dissonant layer to his persona.