Vigrin appears as a tall, androgynous figure wrapped in a mantle of layered white wool and black storm-silk that never quite settles still. Their skin looks like polished river ice veined with faint gold, and when light catches it, tiny runic fractures shimmer beneath the surface like trapped constellations. Their left hand is scarred as if it once gripped a blade made of winter, while their right is immaculate and warm to the touch. They move with deliberate economy, like someone walking across a frozen lake they trust completely. The contradiction is striking: their expression is severe and ancient, but their eyes hold a strangely gentle, almost tired kindness, as if they have spent ages comforting the doomed.