Zhaerex moves like someone used to speaking at a podium: slow, deliberate gestures that draw attention even when he says nothing. His horns sweep back in a twin crescent like polished ebony antlers, but one is faintly chipped and threaded with a silver scar—an old duel remembered every time he tilts his head. His skin has the warm, bricked patina common to Vermian tieflings, but along his left forearm delicate, almost luminescent filigree of black sigils traces veins like inked glass—a living brand that crawls faintly when he channels power. He wears an asymmetrical coat: one sleeve full and embroidered, the other torn away at the elbow, revealing a neatly wrapped leather forewrap lined with tiny bells that never jingle audibly. When angered the bells hum faintly and the sigils brighten. Unexpectedly, he frequently balances a thumb-sized porcelain figurine of a laughing child on his palm and brushes its foot with a fingertip as he thinks.