Tall and poised, with a half-elf elegance softened by years of soot-streaked sleeves and late-night study. His silver hair is tied in a loose knot at the nape, a few rebellious strands curling at his temple. One eye is a clear sky blue, the other a molten amber that seems to shift when he concentrates. His skin bears faint scorched crescents along the forearms where old accidents singed the flesh but left the pattern of an arcane sigil. He moves with the careful economy of someone who spends hours measuring ingredients and gestures, yet when he walks the shop floor his robes whisper like dry leaves. Unexpectedly, he favors small, battered leather gloves studded with tiny glass beads; the gloves are mismatched in color and leave his fingertips exposed, a contradiction between careful alchemical handling and a desire to feel temperature and texture directly.