The Undertaker stands like a walking mausoleum, nearly 3 meters tall, with a long black coat that hangs from his frame in heavy, weather-stiff folds. His skin is the color of old candle wax and looks almost bloodless beneath a permanent cemetery pall. Greasy dark hair spills past his shoulders and across part of his face, but never fully hides the unsettling brightness of his white eyes. His beard is uneven and untrimmed, as if he cuts it only when it starts bothering the dead. The black hat on his head is wide-brimmed and battered, its crown stitched with tiny silver thorns. His scythe has a black blade that drinks in light rather than reflecting it, while the shovel on his back is polished from use and etched with tally marks. He moves with a slow, iron restraint until violence begins, then becomes startlingly fast, like a gate tearing off its hinges. The strangest detail is that he smells faintly of rain-wet lilacs, an almost gentle scent that clashes with everything else about him.