Konrad stands like a wound given form: draped in battered, matte-black plate that drinks light rather than reflects it. The armor is etched with tiny, almost microscopic sigils and tally-marks in a messy hand — evidence of promises broken and names erased. His helm is seldom worn; when it is, the visor is cut to resemble a snarling maw. Skin runs pale beneath salt-and-pepper stubble; his left cheek bears a long, puckered scar that pulls the skin down, giving his mouth a permanent half-sneer. A heavy, tattered cloak hangs from one shoulder, fringed with the braided hair of fallen foes and the faded colors of the order's standard he betrayed. He moves with a predatory grace: slow until he decides to strike, and then quick as a struck snake. Contradictory to the severe silhouette, his gauntleted right hand has fingers that are slender and unexpectedly nimble when he writes or draws — he keeps a small sketchbook of faces. When idle, he sometimes hums lullabies in a voice rough as gravel.