Paroka Veyr is a tall tabaxi with smoke-gray fur that lies sleek along most of his frame but flares into a rough silver ridge across his shoulders and down his spine like wind-tossed ash. His face is lean and foxlike, with a broken left ear, a nose marked by an old burn scar, and gold-green eyes that never seem to focus on the person speaking to him for long. He moves with unsettling economy, every step deliberate, as if he has already measured the floor and the room around it. He wears a contradictory mix of monk's wraps and traveler’s finery, a spotless ivory sash tied over travel-worn charcoal linen, as though he refuses to let hardship stain his discipline. Even at rest he looks mid-stride, coiled and listening, like a drawn bow that learned to breathe.