He is a diminutive man who wears a long purple robe. Upon his head sits a golden diadem, the crown of the king of Tyr. A wispy fringe of gray hair hangs from the golden circlet, but his pate is bald and scaly with age. Lines of anger and hate are deeply etched in his brow, a thousand years of bitterness burned in his gaze, and a scowl hangs upon his dry, cracked lips. Pallid, wrinkled flesh dangles from his cheeks and jaw, and it looks as if the man has been fasting for a hundred years. For all anyone knew, he has.
The population of Tyr know little or nothing of Tyr without Kalak and as far as they know he has always ruled the city, since time began and will continue to forever more. He is not revered as a god, but wields a comparable level of power and influence over the population.
To meet Kalak in person for most citizens would be the last person they would ever meet, for his temper and wrath are unmatched and those that cross him would hardly live to regret it.