Glintmire is tall in a lean, wind-tilted way, as if he is always half a step into the next breeze. His skin looks like polished riverstone dusted with gold pollen, warm to the eye but cool in the touch of light. Fine cracks of luminous green thread across his forearms and collarbones like living veins in old marble. His hair is a tangle of sun-bleached leaves, copper curls, and soft fern-fronds that never quite lie flat, even indoors. One side of his face is handsome and open, the other marked by a healed crescent scar that gleams silver when he smiles. He wears layered robes of moss velvet and storm-gray linen over practical boots caked with ancient soil, which is somehow always fresh. The contradiction that makes him unforgettable is the tiny, immaculate white flower pinned behind one ear, perfectly groomed, beside sleeves stained with ash and mud from his latest impulsive rescue.