A gaunt, pale man with short hair and glowing eyes stands in a stone room, showing golden rune-like markings on his torso and sash, in a digital painting style.

This Scrivenborn bears the stillness of stone cloisters and forgotten vaults. His build is lean but resilient, like parchment that bends without tearing. His skin is sallow, with a texture that seems dry to the eye, fine lines tracing across his cheeks like the faint cracks in an ancient codex. His hair is cropped short, streaked unevenly with pale strands, as though some great dust of ages has settled upon him alone. The eyes, however, betray him. Grey flecked with gold, they shimmer faintly in dimness, as though always reflecting lamplight even where none is found. To meet his gaze is to feel watched by something larger, a presence that does not judge but catalogues, recording wordlessly. When he blinks, it is slow, deliberate, as though reluctant to turn away from the world’s details. His voice is quiet, each word weighed, often broken by long pauses, as though he listens for confirmation from an unseen source before speaking. When he does speak, his tone carries the cadence of recitation — not conversation, but quotation, as though all speech is drawn from some greater text. The robes he wears are plain, though his sash is patterned faintly with runes, faded but constant, marks of preservation rather than vanity. His hands are long-fingered, the nails slightly ink-stained, and he often rests them behind his back when listening, as though unwilling to distract with gestures. He walks with unhurried steps, every motion precise, the kind of care born of decades among See more