Veyn Arclace looks like a librarian who has been drafted into a funeral procession and never quite dismissed. Their skin is pale gray with the waxy sheen of candle smoke, and their movements are measured, almost ceremonial, except when startled by sudden noise, when they jerk with birdlike speed. Their right sleeve is always immaculate while the left is stained with ink, old rain, and the occasional fingerprint of grave dirt. A silver mask of a half-closed eye hangs from a cord at the throat, never worn in full view, and the strangest thing about them is a cheerful stitched smile sewn into their gloves, as if someone tried to turn a mourner into a puppet and stopped halfway.