Pok pulls his hood up, covering his face as much as possible. The ashen robes fold over and over, with a muted glittering they avert the eye. He stands, shoulders relaxed, hands at his side. Feet should length apart, facing the person offering glory.
One hand holds a pencil, the other a notepad. Both were retrieved from a fold in his robes. The notebook looks worn, but the pencil seems brand new. He keeps scribbling notes on each person that enters the room.