Vaelor stands just under four feet, with wiry limbs and nimble fingers stained in a riot of colors from spilled tonics. His weather-beaten, coppery skin is etched with fine burn scars along his forearms. Wiry, electric-blue hair erupts from his head in wild tufts, though a streak of pure white splits his unruly mop. His nose is aquiline and mismatched – seemingly broken and set by different hands on different occasions. Despite a hunched posture, his eyes glint with manic intelligence, peeking out from under singed spectacles. He moves with a skittish energy, shuffling, then suddenly darting forward – and inexplicably whistles offbeat sea shanties as he works.