Tall and thin, there isn't a spare ounce of fat or bulky muscle on Horatio. Though stern lines of age are beginning to crease his face, he still looks like a human half his age: only the slight points of his ears and his elongated limbs and torso betray his not-quite-human heritage.

Atop his head sits a dark mop of unruly hair, barely tamed after decades of stubbornly parting it somewhere in the middle-ish. Wrapped around his neck is a long length of dark cloth: one end of this old scarf always seems to break loose from the otherwise tight knot to trail behind the half-elf like an emaciated cape. He doesn't seem to mind.

Though the clothing beneath is rarely seen (or clean, to be honest; Horatio tends to forget societal niceties like "wearing a clean shirt"), a long, knee-length coat is always draped over Horatio's shoulders. No matter the weather, the coat (and Horatio's neck-wear) are ever-present.