Morvath is a tall human man with a narrow, weathered face and the controlled stillness of someone accustomed to rooms falling silent when he enters. His iron-grey hair is trimmed close at the temples, though one unruly lock repeatedly escapes above his left eyebrow. Slate-grey eyes track exits, hands, and reflections before they settle on a speaker. His skin carries the pale olive tone of a riverland childhood, but years beneath the forest canopy have left it freckled with sun and marked by a thin white scar that runs from his right ear to the corner of his mouth. He moves with almost noiseless precision, yet his hands are surprisingly rough, ridged by old bowstring burns and the splintered grips of concealed weapons. The contradiction is immediate: he looks like a fastidious court administrator, but stands, turns, and strikes like a hunting cat that learned etiquette from spies.