Valcorin Leise is all sharp angles wrapped in indulgence, a man who looks as though he was tailored out of a warning. He wears a pink jacket cut so impeccably it seems painted onto him, tight leather leggings that reflect lamplight like dark water, and immaculate black accessories polished to a near-religious sheen. His skin is pale with a warm undertone, as if he spends his nights in candlelit salons rather than sunlight. His hair is ink-black, usually swept back with deliberate messiness, but the left side is streaked with a faint rose-gold shimmer that never quite matches the rest of him. His eyes are pale gray and unnervingly steady, with a look that suggests he is always already three conversations ahead. He stands with a dancer's posture and a duelist's balance, but his hands are adorned with tiny ink stains, a contradictory sign of the meticulous clerk hidden beneath the flamboyant predator. The unexpected detail is the faint scent of burnt sugar and grave soil that clings to him no matter what perfume he wears.