Kaelen stands with a rigid, unnatural posture, his body less a man and more a blooming heap of shelf-fungus and damp peat. His skin is a mosaic of grey-green lichen and hardened black bark that cracks when he moves, oozing a viscous, sweet-smelling sap. Clusters of small, bioluminescent puffballs sprout from his shoulders like pauldrons, pulsing with a dim, sickly violet light. His face is a hollowed mask where his nose has been replaced by a porous fungal vent, and his movement is terrifyingly smooth, as if he is sliding across the ground rather than walking. Contradicting his horrifying rot, he carries a perfectly preserved, pristine white lily in a glass vial around his neck.