The color of his eyes matches the color of his hair, matches the color of fifty-thousand lines drawn over his body.  Red--the inexplicable, artless tattoos: a dark red, his eyes: a dull, lustless red, his hair: a thin, consuming red.  The red corrupts his skin like an indelible paint, bending and writhing from his neck to his legs in no certain form, as if born that way.  And either the color, or his skin, is hot to the touch.

As (un)natural as his eyes, and his hair, are his roughly-treated horns.  Here and there cross the divits of some hard blow, and the tip of his left horn has been severed, but no evidence of scarring is visible anywhere else on his body.  No evidence of age is visible anywhere else on his body.  Whatever else remains to be known is surely deeper still.