Zylkyne is a towering, demonic silhouette carved from living muscle and shadow. His skin is a deep, burnished crimson that seems almost glossy where embers lick it; veins of near-black run beneath the surface like cooled magma. Two enormous, forward-curving black horns — each roughly the length of his torso — sweep from his temples, ridged and chipped in places where they have been bloodied and polished by years of violence. His face is a bladed mask: exaggerated cheekbones, a broad forehead, flared nostrils, and a mouth full of long, slightly yellowed fangs. His eyes glow a fierce yellow like molten metal, and when he leans into a room they seem to drink light. He moves with the deliberate, predatory grace of a mountain cat: slow steps, unnervingly silent for his bulk, then sudden, animal bursts of motion. His upper body is almost entirely bare except for decorative, battered arm bracers; his muscles are exaggerated, cords and striae visible across shoulders and back. From his hips hangs a ragged loincloth and strips of leather and animal hide, blackened at the edges as if singed. A heavy, tattered black cape hangs from his shoulders, frayed and smelling faintly of smoke; when it moves it leaves a small trail of ash that flutters away. Unexpectedly, beneath the menace there are delicate scars across his knuckles and a tiny bronze locket tied to his belt — small, human, and slightly out of place on such a monstrous figure.