Kyralith appears as a small, boyish figure draped in a threadbare black cloak that eats light. His face is a smooth white skeleton-mask that seems fused to bone; beneath the nasal hollows are faintly shifting constellations. Eyes are hollow sockets lit by slow, purple auroras that pulse with thinking. He carries a colossal scythe taller than most grown men strapped across his back by a strap that looks like braided night. Around the hem of his cloak, silvery motes of starlight drift and fall like dust — they float up again when he moves. He moves with the uneven gait of a child learning to walk and the cold inevitability of a glacier: sudden playful hops and then utterly still, patient waiting. Unexpectedly, he hums lullabies in a voice too small for the power he holds, and when startled he giggles like rain on iron.