Malthus is a narrow, ash-pale man whose movements are so measured that he seems to glide between shelves rather than walk. His skin has the dry texture of old parchment, crossed at the knuckles by faint black lines resembling ink cracks. His left cheek bears a circular burn where a guild seal once branded him, yet the scar remains unnaturally cool to the touch. His silver hair is combed flat except for one stubborn lock that points toward the nearest sealed document. He leaves behind the scent of lamp oil, iron filings, and rain on stone. Despite his severe, funerary appearance, he has an unexpectedly delicate smile and handles frightened children with the tenderness of a nurse.