Warlock is tall and narrow like a cathedral spire, with a presence that feels carefully measured rather than merely large. Their skin has the matte sheen of old lacquered bone, almost porcelain in candlelight, yet it carries faint bruised undertones like storm clouds beneath ice. Their movements are unhurried and balletic, with each step placed as if the floor itself is being judged. One hand bears elegant, gold-filigreed rings that are plainly too fine for the rest of their attire, while the other is always gloved in soot-black leather as though it has touched something holy and hated it. A thin halo-like fracture of pale light sometimes hovers behind their head at odd angles, giving the impression of a broken saint icon trying to remember how to shine.