Antonin was very aware about the state of his appearance. Just a year in Azkaban had taken its toil. He'd lost a considerable amount of weight, and his frame was lean and gaunt; his skin was pale from the lack of sun, and his hollow eyes were sunken in. When the representatives from Preya came for him, his graying hair was long, dirty and matted, and his beard had grown out, but at least that he could fix with a proper haircut and a shave.
Cold, he felt terribly cold, even in the middle of summer, wearing a long, traveling cloak under his wizarding robes. That was one of the ill effects of being around Dementors twenty four hours a day. Everything he owned had been confiscated when he was arrested, therefore he came to Preya with hardly anything; his prison clothes had been exchanged for the roves he was wearing when he was arrested, once fine, but now a little shabby, the only set he owned. Antonin noticed the looks of passersby, who either considered him with scorn or sympathy - perhaps they thought him a beggar? Or at the very least, somebody who was quite ill. At one time, Antonin would've been angry at their condescension, but for the moment, it was difficult to even pull up any emotion beside a flare of anger. Despite his state, he managed to stand straight with his head held high with dignity, even though that was a great task to accomplish, given his current physical condition. He knew we could start to shake the Dementor's effects if he got some chocolate, hence the reason why he'd asked on the journals about where to purchase some.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the approach of somebody on a broomstick - it must be Arcturus Black.. He nodded his head in a respectful bow, by way of greeting, his hand resting upon his heart. "Master Arcturus. Forgive my mean appearance... I have been... ill... for over a year. I am not fit to be seen in your company, but I am grateful for your assistance.: