Malrec Vhalzor is an elegant, severe abyssal tiefling who carries himself like a battlefield monument that learned to breathe. His skin is obsidian-black with a faint glassy sheen, as if polished by ash and moonlight, and when he turns his head the surface catches dim reflections like dark stone in a tomb. His horns arc back in sharp, blade-like points, ridged with natural grooves that resemble the ribs of a buried crown. His six-fingered hands are long and delicate, each fingertip capped with a silver ring etched in funerary sigils. He wears dark, tailored military robes cut with the precision of parade armor, embroidered in silver and bone-white filigree that looks almost ceremonial until one notices how easily the cloth moves in combat. A contradiction always follows him: despite his chilling presence, his robes smell faintly of lavender soap and rain-damp cedar, an effort at cleanliness that feels strangely tender on a man of necromancy. His movement is measured and economical, with the controlled poise of a drill master and the predatory stillness of a grave spider waiting under a stone.