Araleth Voss looks as if someone carved a noblewoman out of soot, lacquered brass, and old grief. Her skin is deep ember-red with faint violet undertones, and in bright light the fine lines around her mouth seem etched with ash. She moves with a quiet, jointed precision, as though every step has been measured against a blueprint no one else can see. Her horns curl back like polished black antlers, but one has a chip near the tip wrapped in gold wire, a repair she refuses to hide. She wears a severe, tailored coat over flexible leather and soft chain, all dyed midnight blue with inner seams lined in copper thread that catches light when she turns. Her most unexpected feature is the sweet, almost maternal smile she gives while working a lock or gutting a trap, as if she were calming a frightened child rather than committing a crime.