Voralis stands an imposing eight feet tall, with limbs as elongated as aged tree branches and a lean frame that moves with the brittle grace of dry parchment. His pale skin is tightly drawn over sharp cheekbones, veined like cracked porcelain, and shimmers faintly with an unnatural coldness. His long, ink-stained fingers clutch both an iron-bound leather tome and a horn-carved stylus, which drips a viscous dark liquid onto the cathedral’s cracked stone floor. He wears a long black robe embroidered with arcane symbols that subtly shift and ripple, as if alive. A wide belt of mismatched iron keys—each to unknown locks—clatters softly at his waist. Despite his solemn and gaunt visage, his eye color is a deep molten amber, unsettlingly warm against his otherwise frigid impression. He moves silently, like a shadow melting through crumbled stone, yet his presence weighs heavy in the frozen air. Unexpectedly, despite his spectral stillness, the faint metallic scent of fresh ink and burnt sage clings to him, creating an aura both foreboding and oddly inviting.