Marek is a tall, lantern-thin old man who moves with the careful, measured precision of a magistrate crossing a courtroom and the eerie stillness of a corpse being prepared for burial. His skin is parchment-pale and deeply veined, but his hands are immaculate, as if constantly washed in sanctified water. He wears a severe cream-and-black vestment of layered clerical silk and iron-threaded chain, over which hangs a collar of polished silver tablets stamped with commandments. His beard is neatly forked and white as ash, yet his mustache is stained a faint gold from consecrated oil. One eye is a cloudy milky gray, the other bright and alert like a raptor's, and both seem to measure guilt before a word is spoken. Despite his frailty, he carries himself with sharp, almost predatory poise, and the surprising contradiction is that his vestments are lined with soft lambswool, giving him the uncanny look of a merciful undertaker.