Rogue has the lean, exacting beauty of something that learned humility by living among mortals and never quite forgave them for it. Their skin looks like warm parchment under candlelight, with faint pearlescent flecks that catch at the edges of shadows. One side of their face is strikingly handsome and the other is softly weathered, as if the world itself once tried to erase them and failed. Their movements are quiet and deliberate, but never still, like a hand hovering over a hidden card. They wear a weather-stained coat lined with inner constellations stitched in frayed gold thread, and beneath it immaculate white gloves that are always one shade too clean for the road. The unexpected detail is a pair of sturdy, mud-splashed pilgrim boots, scuffed nearly to ruin, which they treat with the reverence most deities reserve for relics. When angered, a thin lattice of golden cracks briefly shows beneath the skin of their throat and wrists, like light trapped under porcelain.