Vaneria is a tall, knife-lean half-elf woman who seems to be in motion even when she stands still, as if her body has learned to dodge before danger arrives. Her face is elegant and severe, with ash-pale skin that carries a faint shimmer like moonlit paper, but her left cheek is marked by a delicate lattice of old burn scars that resemble frost on black glass. She wears her black hair in a long braid threaded with copper wire and tiny lock picks, yet a single white streak falls over her brow like a banner of defiance. Her eyes are an unsettling pale green, almost luminous in darkness, and she blinks less often than seems natural. She dresses in tailored midnight leathers over an old silk mourning blouse, the contradiction of luxury and utility making her look like a noble who robbed herself. When she moves, it is with the smooth, economical precision of a cat crossing a high beam, but her laugh is warm and unexpectedly broad, like someone who remembers being ordinary.