Vaelyndir moves with a chilling grace, her movements fluid yet unnervingly silent, as if the air parts respectfully—or in fear—before her. Her form is slender and ethereal, draped in tattered raven-black robes embroidered with faded silver runes that seem to shimmer faintly with a cursed light. Her gaunt face is framed by a thick cascade of silvery-white hair that clings with unnatural stiffness, resembling the brittle strands of frost-coated spider silk. Despite her obvious deathly pallor, her eyes blaze with an iridescent violet glow that contrasts startlingly with the cracked porcelain-like texture of her skin, which almost looks sculpted rather than living. Her fingers end in sharpened, obsidian-like nails that click lightly on her ancient, rune-etched bone staff—a relic fused with remnants of her once vibrant magic. Curiously, a faint scent of jasmine and damp earth surrounds her, contradicting her spectral visage, hinting at a touch of lingering life and unexpected warmth beneath the lich’s cold exterior.