Veltharion moves with the fluid grace of one accustomed to shadowed libraries and furtive streets alike, his long, ink-black hair cascading unevenly past his shoulders, often tangled, streaked with silver threads that shimmer faintly under moonlight. His complexion is pale, almost translucent, pierced by sharp, angular cheekbones and slight sunken eyes that glow with a faint violet hue when he focuses his eldritch powers. A perpetual half-smile lingers on his cracked lips, giving an unexpected warmth that contrasts with the eerie aura around him. His robe, crafted from a thick, patchwork of deep blues and smoky grays interwoven with subtle, shifting sigils, rustles with a strange whispering sound when he moves, as if the fabric communicates secrets of forgotten realms. Contradicting the scholarly elegance of his attire is a battered pair of brightly colored faerie slippers — once a keepsake from a forbidden tryst with a fey noble — which catch the eye and soften his imposing presence.