Alastrev stands slender and graceful, a dapper figure whose every movement echoes the rhythm of a lost era of radio glory. His beige skin has a parchment-like smoothness, contrasting sharply with the dark-grey gradient covering his forearms and lower legs, as if ink slowly spilled and bled upwards. His hair is styled into a sharp, angled bob with a pinkish-red hue fading into black tips—two large black-tipped tufts sprout atop his head like elegant deer ears, casting faint shadows over his dark red sclera and glowing bright-red irises with thin black pupils. Small black antlers rise imposingly from the crown, glossy and jagged. His fingers end in crimson-red nails, and his hoofed toes share the same blood-red sheen. He moves with a peculiar grace, part feline predator, part dashing gentleman, often pausing abruptly as if listening to a silent broadcast. His broad, unnerving grin reveals rows of jagged yellow teeth and suggests both charm and menace. Alastrev’s ragged red pinstripe coat flutters like the static of an old radio signal, paired with a bright red shirt emblazoned with a black cross and formal black pants with bright red cuffs. A dark red monocle with black trim rests over his right eye, complementing a knotted black bowtie with a glowing red center. His attire always shows a careful decay, as if the elegance of a former golden age haunts him like a ghost. Unexpectedly, beneath his polished boots—stamped with red deer hoofprints—there is the faint scent of burnt ozone, a hint of his otherworldly power.