Corsan Velmire moves with a disjointed grace, a predator whose every step seems precisely calculated but oddly hesitant, as if wary of leaving traces. His sun-darkened skin is weathered, etched with shallow scars faintly visible even beneath his rough-spun leather. His short black hair is streaked prematurely with silver — not from age but from stress and battles lost. His angular face is dominated by a sharp crooked nose, broken long ago and never reset properly, giving him a permanent scowl. A faintly glowing amber shard is embedded beneath the skin of his left temple, a faint pulse visible just beneath the surface, a contradictory detail amid his otherwise mundane appearance. His boots are scuffed but impeccably laced, and his worn cloak smells faintly of wet earth and burned oil.