Erylion moves like a tide: slow at first, inevitable as it reaches you. His skin is wind-leathened and freckled with salt; his long, sea-silver hair is braided into a dozen thin ropes threaded with tiny shells, rusted coins, and a single child's carved bone charm. He wears a long, oil-dark coat patched at the elbows and hem with elaborate, faded embroidery of waves and gulls. He favors a crooked, varnished staff capped with a banded glass vial that ripples faintly with trapped phosphorescence — when he turns it the light inside shifts like water. Unexpectedly, his fingers are ringed in delicate filigree rings—too fine for a hardened keeper—and one pinky ring bears a tiny glass eye that sometimes blinks on its own. When he smiles, it's warm but never reaches his left eye, which flickers with a pale, sea-glass scar that catches lamplight. His gait leans slightly to the left, as if favoring a memory of a ship's sway.