Vrakthor is a towering black dragonborn whose acid-burnished scales have the dull sheen of wet basalt. The plates along his shoulders and spine are unusually smooth, polished by years of ceremonial grooming, while the scales of his hands are roughened and pale at the fingertips from handling sulfur salts, treaty seals, and warding chalk. His movements are economical, almost delicate for someone of his size. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice that he repeatedly presses one claw against the inside of his left wrist, checking the pulse there as though confirming that his body remains under his command. His expression rarely changes, yet his nostrils flare at the smell of hot metal and his throat vibrates faintly whenever someone lies. The unexpected contradiction is his hands. They look like an administrator's hands, clean and carefully manicured, but they carry the ingrained yellow-white residue of a refinery worker that no soap can remove. When his magic rises, green light travels beneath his scales like swamp fire, and the sulfur circlet around his brow begins to whisper against the air.