Kaelith Voss moves like a curtain being drawn by a deliberate hand, each step exact, each pause a statement. He is tall and narrow shouldered, with porcelain-pale skin that seems almost powdered under candlelight, though the hands that hold a glass are marked by a few deep brewer's stains that never quite wash out. His hair is black at first glance, but when it catches the light it reveals a bruised violet sheen, worn long enough to brush his collar in a precise wave. His eyes are a striking amber-gold, sharp and unblinking, framed by long lashes that make his gaze feel more intimate than polite. He dresses in a velvet coat the color of dried blood, tailored so closely it looks stitched onto him, yet he wears a cracked old brass cuff on one wrist and plain travel boots under the finery, an oddly practical contradiction. A single silver ring holds a tiny etched wineglass that he spins when thinking, and the scent of clove, plum, and old smoke seems to follow him after every room he leaves.