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Morrhen is known simply as the Hollow Apprentice among the few who speak of him at all, a title half-contemptuous, half-fearful. He was created and raised by a powerful necromancer as their undead apprentice to perform tedious mind-numbing tasks, but also has trained him in bone and blood magic and arts of the grave when time allowed. Morrhen is a young undead male of unsettling elegance — ashen blue-grey skin pulled taut over sharp, angular features, high cheekbones casting deep shadows beneath amber-gold eyes that glow with a faint, predatory luminescence. His black hair hangs loose and damp across his forehead, perpetually disheveled, as though he has just emerged from something violent or wet. Crimson vein-like markings crawl up Morrhen's throat and chest, visible where his ruined coat hangs open — whether curse-marks, necrotic scarring, or something his master inscribed deliberately, no one alive has been told. He wears a heavily distressed black coat, its wide lapels torn, its hem frayed by what looks like decades of punishment, though he cannot be more than a few years risen. Morrhen moves with a deliberate, slightly forward-leaning posture, one arm often extended as though perpetually mid-command, his gaze angled downward with an intensity that makes people step back before they understand why. He speaks little in company, and when he does his voice is low, measured, with the careful cadence of someone reciting from memory. He is courteous in the precise, hollow way of someone who learned courtesy from a book rather than a childhood. Servants in his master's tower report he labors through the night, transcribing texts, dissecting specimens, practicing incantations in whispers. He does not eat. He rarely acknowledges pain. Most assume he is simply what he appears: a created thing, obedient and cold. Most are wrong.