Nareth is tall and spare, with the stillness of a courthouse statue and the quiet alertness of a night watchman. His skin has the warm tone of old parchment stained by candle smoke, and faint threads of silver light shift beneath it like ink floating in water. His hair is black at the roots and turns to ash-white at the ends, though every strand seems to remember a different age. One eye is pale gold, the other a deep slate blue, and neither blinks quite at the same time. He moves with precise, economical grace, as if every step is measured against an invisible record book. Despite his severe presence, he wears one worn glove embroidered with tiny flowers, an unsettlingly tender detail on an otherwise austere figure.