Alverin moves like a man who has memorized every inch of his study: slow-footed but sure, one hand trailing a fingertip along surfaces. He wears a long slate-blue coat shot with faint embroidered sigils along the collar and cuffs — the embroidery catches light like frozen threads of melody. His face is narrow, with a hooked nose and a thin mouth that tends to twitch into practiced smiles. He is blind: his eyes are milky glass, pupils clouded white, yet lenses of faint opalescence seem to gather ambient enchantment. An unexpected detail: he keeps a child's wind-up music box pinned inside his coat; when wound, its tiny tune makes him pause and smile as if remembering a private joke. When he walks, his robe whispers softly, like paper being leafed through, and a scent of old paper and citrus clings to him. He favors long, flexible staff carved from blackthorn, wrapped in braided silver thread and inlaid with a dull, ever-warm moonstone that hums faintly when enchantments are near.