Tall and unnervingly graceful, Vhalek wears his body like a disguise that almost works. His skin has the pallid sheen of old ivory marbled with faint violet veins that pulse when his emotions rise, and his features seem to argue with themselves, a human jawline set beneath a mouth that can split into a subtle, predatory grimace. From beneath a deep hood, thin tentacular filaments, usually wrapped in black waxed cloth, twitch when he is angry or hungry. One eye is an opalescent gray human eye that watches with wounded intensity, while the other is a milky, swirling iris that seems to look through surfaces rather than at them. He moves with precise, economical steps, as if he refuses to waste a single motion, yet when he forgets himself there is an unsettling sway to his shoulders like something aquatic moving under a coat of flesh. He hides behind layered robes and a porcelain half-mask, which he adorns with immaculate silver filigree, an unexpectedly elegant choice for someone who speaks often of tearing minds apart.