Makar is a lean, wiry human with the taut, rope-veined look of a man carved from old ash and bad choices. His shaved scalp is faintly mottled with ritual nicks, and his face is a map of hardship, dominated by a severe underbite and a narrow mouth that never seems fully at rest. Piercing green eyes track every movement with predatory calm, yet his expression often carries an almost devotional serenity, as if he is already listening to a sermon no one else can hear. Reddish geometric scarification bands cross his collarbones and spiral along his forearms in hooked chevrons that catch the light like embers under the skin. He wears simple dark-gray monastic robes with rugged leather bindings around his forearms, but the hem is meticulously stitched with tiny black silk thread and one sleeve is lined with expensive crimson brocade, a hidden luxury that contrasts sharply with his austere bearing. He stands with unsettling stillness, then moves in sudden, measured bursts, gripping a polished darkwood quarterstaff that looks more like a ritual instrument than a weapon.