Othrex is tall and severe, with a body that seems carved from black glass and moonlit marble at once. Fine cracks of gold glow beneath his skin like molten seams in a shattered statue. His movements are precise and economical, as if every gesture has been measured against a cosmic scale. The unexpected detail is a threadbare pilgrim's scarf in faded blue wool wrapped at his throat, soft and plainly mortal, which he fingers as though it were the most sacred relic in existence. When he stands still, the air around him feels lined with invisible shelves, each one holding an unseen weight of verdicts waiting to fall.