Kazaril looks at first like a fire-touched outsider folded into human skin: his epidermis is an oily, deep onyx that shimmers faintly as if with heat-haze, and his hair hangs in heavy black dreadlocks threaded with copper wire and tiny glass vials. When he moves, embers seem to cling to the air around his shoulders — not burning anything, only giving a soft, flickering light that outlines him in dim places. His eyes glow a honeyed amber, pulsing slightly when he's excited or angered. He favors a long, soot-dark coat patched with pockets and straps; beneath it he wears a loose shirt scarred with acid stains and a waist sash holding pouches of reagents. The unexpected element is his hands: one is wrapped in neat linen bandages up to the wrist, the other bare and decorated with faint, bluish burn-scars that map like a constellation. He walks with a quick, feline readiness, often tilting his head like a curious predator.