Glious is a gaunt, sun-browned elder who moves with a catlike, careful intent. His skin is cracked around the knuckles and cheeks like parched clay; veins stand out along his temples. He favors a slow, curling gait as if each step is measured on an invisible scale. His robes are white but washed and softened by decades of sun and chemicals into a papery off-white with faint, mottled stains — lemon-amber in one cuff, verdant green along the hem, a ring of faint crimson where a ritual once bled into cloth. Around his neck dangles a cluster of tiny glass vials on a bronze chain; they chime softly when he breathes. The unexpected element: despite his ascetic, priestly garb and the weight of years, his left forearm is tattooed in bright, youthful cobalt sigils that glow faintly under moonlight — a pattern the devout find disturbing on a man of his age. When he speaks he leans forward as if imparting a dangerous secret, and when silent he closes his eyes so long his attendants reflexively step forward to fan him as if he were sleeping.