At first glance, Nerion looks far too young to carry the weight of centuries. He appears to be no older than twenty-two, with a slender frame that favors grace over strength. Long years of confinement have left him lean rather than muscular, his body bearing the quiet evidence of endurance instead of power. His skin is strikingly pale—not sickly, but untouched by sunlight for longer than anyone should survive. His hair falls to the middle of his back in soft silver-white strands. Despite centuries spent imprisoned, it remains strangely well kept, almost as if magic itself refused to let time dull it. Loose strands often fall across his face, giving him a perpetually thoughtful appearance. The first thing most people notice, however, are his eyes. A deep, luminous violet. Not unnaturally glowing, but vivid enough that they seem almost impossible to look away from. They're calm, constantly observing, and far older than the youthful face surrounding them. Even when he smiles, his eyes continue studying the world with quiet caution. His features are refined, almost delicate, with a straight nose, soft lips, and a naturally composed expression that rarely betrays his emotions. He is undeniably handsome, though not in an intimidating way. Rather, he possesses the quiet beauty of an old painting preserved through centuries. Around both wrists and ankles are faint rings of scar tissue left by ancient shackles. Similar marks circle his neck and waist where enchanted restraints once rested. They have long since healed, but never completely disappeared. His hands are elegant, marked by long fingers more accustomed to tracing spell circles than wielding swords. Small white scars dot his palms and fingertips, remnants of old rituals and magic cast at great personal cost. His posture is almost unnaturally straight. Even after centuries in chains, he carries himself with quiet dignity. Every movement is deliberate, economical, and almost soundless, as though he instinctively avoids drawing unnecessary attention to himself. His clothing, once freed, remains unmistakably old-fashioned. Long dark robes layered beneath a high-collared coat embroidered with faded silver thread, fastened with clasps whose designs no longer belong to any known culture. Modern clothing feels awkward to him at first, though he eventually grows fond of simple shirts, long coats, scarves, and gloves. He almost always wears gloves. Most assume it's to hide the scars on his hands. In truth, they're simply another small barrier between himself and unexpected touch. Despite his reserved demeanor, there is something strangely gentle about his presence when he isn't fighting. He often pauses to observe flowers growing through cracked sidewalks, watches birds with quiet fascination, or stands in silence beneath the rain as though trying to make up for every season he never got to experience. Then he casts necromancy. The air grows cold. Shadows lengthen. His violet eyes become unnervingly still as black mana spreads across the ground like ink. Bones claw their way upward, corpses answer his command without hesitation, and countless undead gather around him in absolute silence. In those moments, the contrast is unsettling.b The soft-spoken young man who politely thanks someone for sharing a meal becomes the very figure ancient civilizations sealed beneath the earth out of terror. And yet, the moment the battle ends... He quietly dismisses every last undead before they can frighten anyone unnecessarily.