Tall and imposing, Vaelen moves with the deliberate grace of someone accustomed to command, his every step measured and precise. His clothing consists of richly embroidered dark velvets mixed with jagged, almost unnatural patterns that shimmer slightly in torchlight. His face is angular yet worn, with deep laugh lines that seem at odds with the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes. A lavish silver chain in the shape of a twisted, thorned vine rests heavily around his neck – an emblem of the fake religion he carefully crafted. His finger bones appear unnervingly elongated, giving his hands a spider-like quality when he gestures. Despite his noble bearing, the faintest smell of burnt incense clings to him, an odd contrast to his rigid and aristocratic demeanor.