Zhaerik Vonn cuts an imposing figure, with the hard, angular grace of a warrior who has spent decades moving between violence and law. His skin has the gray-lilac sheen of old ash and moonlight, mapped with pale stress lines around the throat and knuckles where rage has thickened into habit. He wears his armor with the fastidious pride of a parade marshal, yet it is dented, scratched, and mended with mismatched plate from a dozen worlds. His left horn has been cleanly filed down to a blunt ridge, but the right still curves into a sharp crescent, giving his head an asymmetrical silhouette that looks almost regal at a distance and deeply unsettling up close. He moves like a drawn blade, all sudden stops and explosive bursts, but he keeps a sheriff's star pinned to his collar in polished silver, absurdly bright against a belt of hanging iron keys and old arrest tags.