Aehlana stands in a twilight clearing like a half-remembered dream. Her posture is slight and poised, as if her bones were made to echo the sway of young saplings; she moves with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who is always listening. Her long hair falls in a silver waterfall that catches the soft gold-and-green light and seems to shimmer with faint motes of pollen that never quite settle. Her face is finely carved and very, very beautiful — high cheekbones, a small, aquiline nose, and a mouth that easily slips between pleading softness and a bright, teasing smile. Her expression almost always carries a quiet ache, a vulnerability that reads like a silent request for protection. Around her, the grasses and flowers lean toward her voice: blooms unnaturally bright ring her feet and tiny luminous spores float in the air, hugging the contours of her silhouette, intensifying the contrast between her delicate beige robes and the lush emerald forest beyond. Unexpectedly, there is a hairline scar at her left temple, pale against the silver, and her fingertips are stained with sap and soil; the contradiction of regal fragility and soil-streaked hands is disarming.