The brown monk robe is old and decrepit, flithy from of years of wear. The fabric, once a deep, rich earth tone, is now faded and worn, giving it an almost sickly, ashen-brown appearance. It hangs loosely, draping over the figure as if too large for the wearer. The coarse cloth feels rough against the skin, almost unsettling in its abrasiveness. The hood is large, casting a shadow over the face, and the long sleeves reach down to the wrists like tattered wings, seemingly ready to engulf the wearer’s hands at any moment.
 
The robe emits a faint, musty smell, like forgotten tombs and damp stone. When worn, the robe creates a sensation of coldness, as though the very fabric absorbs warmth and life, leaving only the eerie presence of something ancient and forgotten. There’s a lingering feeling of being watched, as if the robe itself holds the spirit of something long dead.