Prelate Loris Frost-Speaker is a tall white dragonborn who stands with such rigid, priestly uprightness that he resembles a frozen standard planted in the floor. His pale scales are nearly flawless, smooth as polished porcelain across the chest and throat, but silver ritual scars form precise descending lines from his brow to the corners of his eyes. His horns are short, swept backward, and capped with black iron rings engraved with legal scripture. He moves with controlled, gliding steps, never hurrying and never appearing to lose balance, even on ice. Heavy ceremonial vestments of stark white and charcoal-grey wool hang over articulated frost-steel half-plate, each plate marked with jagged icicle symbols. His massive mace is ugly rather than ornate, its meteoric iron head pitted like a piece of the night sky. The unexpected contradiction is his hands: broad, scarred, and constantly gentle, with carefully trimmed claws and the habit of smoothing wrinkles from another person's clothing before delivering a sentence of punishment.