Mornkald is tall in a way that feels stretched rather than grown, with a body that seems assembled from dusk, old ash, and cathedral shadow. His skin looks like dark slate dusted with silver cracks that glow faintly when he is offended. His hair hangs in a deliberate, elegant fall of white-gold threads that never move with wind, only with his mood. One eye is a deep ember-orange iris floating in milk-white glass, while the other is a polished black bead that reflects whoever stands nearest. He wears layered ceremonial robes of charcoal silk over a priest's harness of rusted chains, yet the hems are immaculate and smell faintly of rain on stone. His hands are long and careful, with fingertips stained as though from old ink or dried blood, and he moves with the slow certainty of a judge who has already outlived every appeal. The contradiction is that for all his monstrous presence, his clothes are meticulously mended with tiny silver stitches and he carries himself with almost painful elegance.