Vrakthas is a massive black dragonborn whose presence seems to narrow every room around him. His scales are matte charcoal, rough as cooled forge slag along the shoulders and polished almost glass-smooth on the knuckles from years of weapon drills. A thick, jagged white scar runs vertically across his left, sightless eye, exactly as if a shard of white-hot metal had been dragged down through the socket. His right eye is a deep amber slit that rarely fixes on faces. Instead, his head tilts subtly toward footsteps, breathing, loose buckles, and the shifting pressure of bodies nearby. He moves with the economical certainty of a falling gate, never hurried and never quite making the sound his enormous frame should make. The unexpected contradiction is his hands: they are broad, scarred, and built for breaking armor, yet he keeps the nails buffed and clean, with each claw carefully filed to an identical blunt point. People remember the faint smell of clove oil on him, beneath the iron, ash, and old leather.