Siraide's attire is a testament to his mastery of the arts.
He dons a cloak of inky blackness that seems to absorb all light, its hem brushing the ground as he moves with deliberate grace. A gnarled cane, carved with ancient runes and adorned with a crow's feather, is never far from his grasp, a conduit for his mana circuitry.
His age is evident in every wrinkle etched upon his withered face, like the pages of an ancient tome. His long, bony fingers are adorned with intricate rings of onyx and obsidian, each bearing the weight of untold secrets. Yet, despite the fragility that age has brought to his physical form, his eyes betray a vitality that transcends mere mortal limitations. Within those piercing, smouldering rusty eyes, one can glimpse the boundless depths of his knowledge.
He dons a cloak of inky blackness that seems to absorb all light, its hem brushing the ground as he moves with deliberate grace. A gnarled cane, carved with ancient runes and adorned with a crow's feather, is never far from his grasp, a conduit for his mana circuitry.
His age is evident in every wrinkle etched upon his withered face, like the pages of an ancient tome. His long, bony fingers are adorned with intricate rings of onyx and obsidian, each bearing the weight of untold secrets. Yet, despite the fragility that age has brought to his physical form, his eyes betray a vitality that transcends mere mortal limitations. Within those piercing, smouldering rusty eyes, one can glimpse the boundless depths of his knowledge.