Not unlike standard fare, Darqie is a beautiful black stallion, short, lithe, and only slightly stocky in the middle. He's mostly outgoing, with only occasional tendency to fall into shy or bashful spots.
A denizen of dreams and a creature of mist, he is a natural, though reticent shapeshifter, and fairly androgynous at even the clearest of times.
Darqie has a habit of growing and shedding a long winter coat at will, and may end up putting off great deals of musky, silken fur. Since, like himself, his coat is of the mist, it does not persist for long. Clothing woven from it can quickly become 'emperor's new' clothing, as it were, dissipating in bright daylight, heat, or strong emotion, like cotton candy in the rain.
He has a passion for almost any kind of science or metaphysical art, be it alchemy, apothecary, astrology, or energy work, but is quite proverbially absentminded.
These passions and hobbies inevitably lead to a strong and eclectic odor clinging to him, often sulfur and rosemary, or frangipani and skunk musk (on special occasions.) His pheromone profile screams female to the naive nose, with clear, healthy, blatant undertones of fertility and gentle, honest lust.
It's also clear to the nose that he smokes, but none of the common people's herbs. Sweetgrass, damiana, calendula, young hawthorn, and many other distant and more exotic aromas cling to his mane or wreath him thickly enough to put a caterpillar to shame.
Too predictably, his stomach guides him even moreso than his curiosity, and he loves apples, carrots, oats, fragrant herbs, and sprouts. Unique smells, distant soils, and old books or scrolls will quickly draw his nose. Ne'er a book has he read that he has not also smelt.
Beyond the veil of common sight, sit furled great feathered wings; beneath gentle, dark whiskered lips rest long, hungry fangs. Strong hands, a kind heart, yearn and ken toward the healing art; Indignant, emblazoned, those hands twist to the passion of wrath, to those fangs, a taste for the flesh of the wicked.