Vheran wears an impossibly lustrous golden mask that perfectly reflects light without revealing any facial features beneath. His movements are unnervingly smooth and deliberate, like a serpent weaving through shadow; his heavy cloak shimmers with threads of metallic gold but beneath it his garb is old, worn, and dusty as if from forgotten ages. His hands, always gloved, are unnaturally pale with long slender fingers. Although his posture is upright and commanding, there is a faint limp in his left leg—an old injury concealed beneath his robes. A faint scent of resin and burnt amber curls around him, leaving a mix of allure and unease.