Imreh moves like a man who has learned to make ceremony into a gait: slow, precise, as if each step is part of a prayer. He wears a heavy, worn ceremonial robe of dark gray and muted violet, the fabric softened to near-matte with age and countless oils; the embroidery along the collar and sleeves is violet thread so faded it looks like bruising. His face is pale and gaunt with hollowed cheeks, crow's-feet that reach like cracks from tired eyes, and a faint grayish sheen to the skin as if he has spent long nights near incense and salt. His eyes glimmer with a faint, unnatural devotion — not quite luminescent, but a steady, reverent glint when he speaks of doctrine. His hair is dark, often unkempt; sometimes it is braided with thin ritual cords, sometimes partially shaved into incised sigils that peek like scars. Unexpectedly, beneath the robe he wears a child's patched wool jerkin — a leftover from his youth — that softens the austerity with an oddly tender domesticity.