Bent and crooked, Vaelek lies shrouded under moldering robes. These layers of wool, linen and silk are in various states of decay, constantly crumbling away as Vaelek hobbles along. Leaning on a walking stick, the color of the wood has leeched away with time leaving it gray and the wood visibly bends beneath Vaelek's weight with each step, but doesn't quite break. The hand visible clasping that walking stick is gloved in similarly decrepit fabric. A sickly sweet aroma wafts about the hobbling god.