Sloan Mercer is an impeccably dressed human man whose presence feels carefully edited. His slate-grey hair is combed into a smooth side part, each strand lying flat as though pressed beneath glass. His face is neat, symmetrical, and strangely forgettable, with skin that carries the faint dry sheen of someone who spends long hours among metal dust and wind-borne cloud salt. He moves with economical precision, never hurried, yet always arriving at a doorway just before anyone expects him. His silver spectacles reflect the pale blue of Zephyria's sky, making his eyes difficult to read. His Confraternity uniform is cut from muted charcoal, ash, and faded blue fabric, with seams that seem to soften against walls and shadows. He leaves an impression of immaculate competence, but observers often disagree about whether he is tall, slight, handsome, or plain. The unexpected contradiction is his hands: broad, scarred, and stained with machine grease, belonging to a dockworker rather than a polished administrator.