On top of his head is a large black top hat, punctuated with a single white rose. Beneath this hat is an average sized hand, rooted in his head. Three hands for this immortal man, like three hands you would find on a clock.
He wears draped around his neck a watch on a chain. Notably, it does not tick or move, save when he flaps his leathery wings and shaves seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, decades away from a fresh victim.
He tips his hat at the corpse as his watch winds itself ever tighter, the dam that holds back his death, his Sword of Damascus.
He smiles, then sighs as he walks along the cobbled street, still in search of more time to steal so that he may have some time to waste.
The dust left by the corpse is swept up the next day, while the missing person report is filed away.