Kaelith Voss looks as if he stepped out of a candlelit duel and into a courtly opera. He is tall and narrow shouldered, with an elegant, almost exaggerated posture that makes every room seem smaller around him. His skin has the pale warmth of cream left too long beside red wine, and his hands are meticulously groomed, the fingertips stained faintly plum from inks, tinctures, and old bruises. His black hair falls in a controlled wave to one side, but a single silver streak cuts through it like a blade mark, absurdly bright against the dark. He wears tailored midnight velvet with a collar that seems too severe to be fashionable, then undermines the severity with a lining of shocking rose silk that flashes whenever he turns. His left eye is amber gold and his right is pale gray, giving him the unsettling look of someone who is always appraising your debt and your soul at the same time. The contradiction that lingers longest is his gloves, plain and practical, scuffed at the knuckles as if he works with his hands more often than he admits.