The thin gray light of new morning was not favorable to the sorceries practiced by Zizor Thulk, but he awaited it today with arachnid patience. From the top of his amethyst tower he stared eastward, a smudge of deeper darkness in a kaftan and slippers of black camel hair. His right hand was gloved in black felt embroidered with sigils in black thread, and rested on the balustrade. The demonic prosthesis of his left he tucked into a tattered silk sash as proof against the dawn.
In the gloom he might pass for human, barring the alien appendage twitching on his wrist. Tall, thin beneath the robe, broad across the shoulders. His coal-black tousle frames a face considered handsome by the aesthetic of his dead race, but thought too long and sharply featured by his contemporary peers. As a private joke, he keeps his beard in the style of Yrvech herdsmen, also extinct: long on the left and plaited in three beaded ropes, cropped close on the right and trimmed into the profile of a goat, its maw the sorcerer’s own.
Any illusion of humanity would fail with light or scrutiny. Skin once walnut has been worn colorless as driftwood by the relentless tides of centuries, and left as unyielding and without warmth. Dozens of dissimilar irises swim in his eyes, torn from creatures sensitive to rare and occult spectra. Beneath the kaftan: fetishes sewn to his body, a furry pedipalp as a third arm, dire spirits trapped as tattoos and brands glaring with impotent rage. Beneath the skin: runes carved into his bones, grafted organs secreting weird humours, a half-formed homunculus squirming like a kitten in a sack…
Thus was the immortal sorcerer on the day he died.