Valen is a slender elf whose movements are unnervingly economical, as though every gesture has been rehearsed beside a dissecting table. His skin is the muted bronze of old cedar warmed by fire, and his long black hair is combed into a severe braid threaded with tiny bone beads. He smells strongly of clove oil, damp soil, and the sharp mineral scent of recently opened graves, a fragrance he insists is merely medicinal. His hands are immaculate, with dark polish rubbed into the nails to hide stains that never quite leave. He wears a calm, almost scholarly expression, yet his smile appears at the wrong moments, especially when someone mentions a funeral. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate grooming and fussy courtesy, which coexist with a satchel full of grave dirt, loose teeth, and labeled scraps of funeral shrouds.