Mharik looks carved rather than born, a tall outsider with skin like weathered ivory veined by faint seams of gold that glow brighter when they are angry or attentive. Their body is lean and severe, but their movements are unexpectedly soft, as if every step is placed on invisible scales. A cracked bronze halo floats behind their head at a slight tilt, repaired with pale thread and tiny knots of silver. One shoulder is armored in polished lamellar, while the other is bare and marked by old ritual scars, giving them the contradictory impression of a battlefield judge and a half-finished statue. Their hands are long-fingered and careful, with calluses like a soldier and the cleanliness of a temple archivist.