Towering, gaunt, and unnervingly composed. Malovar stands taller than most men and moves with the precise, economical gait of someone who dislikes wasting effort. His robes are a patchwork of ash-dark fabrics and singed scroll-leathers that murmur faintly as if arguing among themselves. His face is a narrow map of old scars; a pale smear of healed flesh crosses his left cheek and lifts the corner of his mouth into a permanent, almost amused half-grin. His eyes are an emberous yellow that flicker when he speaks, and thin silver filaments vine from his wrists beneath the robe sleeves, snaking into jagged rings on his fingers that pulse dimly with trapped lanternlight. Unexpectedly, there is a small, spotless white handkerchief folded and tucked into his inner robe pocket, embroidered with a child's name in faded blue thread.