Kostchtchie barely resembles the mortal man he once was. He is an immense, broad-shouldered figure whose body has swollen into the proportions of a frost giant, though his head remains unnaturally small above the massive planes of his shoulders. His legs twist outward at the knees and taper into long, bent feet that make every step look painful, yet he moves with the deliberate certainty of a glacier. His skin is the pale blue-gray of old ice beneath moonlight, crossed by faint white lines that resemble cracks in a frozen lake. A colossal white beard hangs to his knees, each braid threaded with tiny silver bells, bone charms, and the finger bones of kings who once refused his worship. His tiny eyes are pure white, without pupils or irises, but they seem to notice every movement in the room. He smells strongly of cold iron, juniper smoke, and freshly split pine. He knows this and considers it the scent of sanctity. The unexpected softness is his hands, which are broad and scarred but move with extraordinary delicacy when he handles a child's toy, a flower, or a dead person's keepsake.