Hamza stands tall with an imposing posture that belies his age, his movements deliberate yet surprisingly fluid, like desert wind shifting through ancient dunes. His deeply tanned, almost cracked skin tells stories of decades under relentless sun and countless hours poring over dusty tomes. His long white beard is meticulously braided with tiny silver charms shaped like minute scrolls and glyphs, a sharp contrast to his piercing dark brown eyes that gleam with an intellect that never rests. Despite his stern demeanor, his crimson-embroidered robes shimmer faintly under light, woven with enchanted silk that sometimes flickers like a mirage. Strangely, he often wears a lightweight sand-worn leather glove only on his left hand, which he never removes, adding a mysterious unevenness to his otherwise precise gestures.