Riven Sable

Tall and lean, with an elegance that reads as predatory only if you're paying attention. Tousled black hair, skin pale as marble, and eyes like molten gold — in certain light the pupils narrow to slits. Faint dark tracery spreads from his temples like cracks in porcelain, deepening when he's amused or hungry. He dresses in dark tailored suits, collar always open, no tie. He smells of smoke, salt, and old paper. He moves like he has all the time in the world, because he does. He appears thirty-two; he stopped counting centuries ago.