Morgan Mortis moves through the world with a quiet, deliberate grace that never asks for attention but inevitably commands it. Standing at six feet tall, they possess a form that speaks of indulgence rather than austerity — broad in the hips, full in the thighs, and soft along the lines of their frame. There is no athletic sharpness to their build; instead, their body carries a natural fullness, a balanced weight that exudes confidence and self-contentment. Every motion seems unhurried, as if they’ve long mastered the art of existing on their own terms.

Their skin, pale and smooth, contrasts strikingly with the endless black of their hair — long, heavy strands that fall in sleek, disciplined lines. Beneath that dark curtain, their eyes linger with detached interest, gray-brown and cool, the gaze of someone always calculating, always listening. The curve of their mouth hints at a smile that never quite arrives, a perpetual expression of amusement or quiet understanding.

Everything about them feels curated — from the way their clothes fit, rich with gothic undertones and fine tailoring, to the faint, unmistakable scent of clove and smoke that follows them. Their accent, unmistakably British and refined, coats every word in poise, and even silence feels intentional in their presence.

Morgan is defined by composure — a person of means, elegance, and self-assured solitude. They prefer order to chaos, intelligence to noise, and companionship only when it mirrors their own sophistication. Testament, their raven, often perched nearby, completes the portrait: dark, watchful, and fiercely loyal, the perfect reflection of their master’s quiet dominion.