Borbarad moves like a man who thinks three steps ahead; his gait is deliberate and light, as if avoiding cracks in the earth. He wears a long, double-breasted robe of matte black interwoven with faint silver sigils that only reveal themselves in moonlight. His left hand is pale and almost translucent from a decades-old arcane burn, fingers slender with long, ringless knuckles. He keeps an antique, brass-rimmed spyglass tucked into a hip-sash in plain sight — not because he needs it, but because he likes observers to assume he watches as they watch him. Unexpectedly, he favors a bright saffron scarf against the blackness, a flamboyant splash that contradicts his otherwise severe palette and hints at a childhood he refuses to forget.