Vaerith Dusksunder is a tall, lean drow with the still, predatory poise of a blade held just above skin. His midnight-blue skin carries a matte sheen like forge-blackened steel, while his silver-white hair is tied into a severe knot threaded with thin iron rings that chime only when he is angry. In darkness his eyes glow a faint, unsettling crimson, but in bright light they look almost colorless, as if all color has been burned out of them. He wears sleeveless shadow-silk wraps under a dark forge-mantle plated with rune-etched black alloy, the whole outfit tailored to keep sparks from catching and footsteps from speaking. His arms and hands are laced with ritual scars, hammer brands, and tiny cuts healed into neat silver lines, and despite the brutal tools at his belt he moves with a monk's restraint, each motion economical and quiet. The most contradictory thing about him is the apron he sometimes wears in the forge: soft white linen, meticulously clean, embroidered with little crescent moons, as if a butcher insisted on being immaculate.