Vael-Quin moves like a wind through dried leaves: patient, rustling, and never quite the same twice. Their skin has the pale grey-gold of weathered parchment, fine creases like maps etched in the hollows of their cheeks. A veil of hair hangs in two lengths — one side a drifting white that falls like frost, the other a braided ribbon of dark copper woven with silver seed beads. Their eyes are mismatched: one amber flecked with emerald (like a forest in sunlight), the other a milky, moonlit blue veined with gold. They prefer loose layered robes that shift color subtly with their mood (saffron to russet to deep teal), and they carry an oversized satchel bursting with folded scraps of map, pressed leaves, and tiny glass bottles. Contradiction: despite their ancient mien and slow gestures, Vael-Quin's fingers are ink-stained and surprisingly nimble, capable of delicate tattooing and picking locks with the same patient grace.