Q is tall, stooped, thin as a rail, and has onyx eyes that gaze from under heavy brows with piercing intensity. He can stare for an unnaturally long time without blinking. His pale, parchment-thin skin stands in stark contrast to the severity of his antiquated black wool cloak, and his wispy white hair drifts around his skull like ethereal mist. His boots don’t have a right or a left, as he made them himself.
