Ilyr Vant appears as a tall, narrow outsider assembled from human proportions, raven feathers, and strips of moving parchment. His skin has the matte texture of old ivory, but faint blue script travels beneath it like veins. He moves with unsettling economy, never quite walking in a straight line, as if each step must pass through an invisible clause before becoming real. His face is severe and handsome, with a mouth that seems almost too soft for his expression. Hundreds of tiny brass staples hold his shoulder-length hair in place. The contradictory impression is that of a fragile, scholarly clerk who radiates the quiet physical danger of a locked vault collapsing.