Father Seán Mordan is heavy-set and almost ornamental in his mass, with the stillness of a carved saint until he moves, when he surprisingly drifts rather than strides, as though a breeze is always deciding for him. His half-bald head is ringed with brief black hair around a pale crown, while thick white eyebrows and long sideburns make his face look perpetually framed by old snow. His skin has the slightly weathered, indoor pallor of a man who spends more time by candlelight than sun. He wears a sienna hooded monk-style robe lined in brown, over an ochre long-sleeved shirt with a lavender patch on the right elbow, and black sandals that slap softly against stone. The contradiction that catches people off guard is how immaculate his clothes are while his fingertips are faintly scorched, as if holiness and arson both live there.