Sigrun appears as an androgynous, luminous outsider with the stillness of a statue and the nervous energy of a traveler who has crossed too many thresholds. Their skin looks like moonlit parchment dusted with ash, cool to the eye and faintly iridescent at the edges, as if a second silhouette tries to step out of it when they move. Their hair is long, silver-black, and braided with tiny bone beads, but the braids are always damp as though they have just come in from sea mist. Their eyes are mismatched, one pale gold and one deep winter blue, and both seem to focus on things no one else has noticed yet. They wear layered robes of soot-gray linen and soft white lambswool, an oddly domestic combination for a divine being, with sleeves stitched full of tiny hidden pockets. When Sigrun walks, they do not stride so much as drift and catch themselves, as if their body remembers a different gravity. The contradictory detail that makes people stare is the embroidered kitchen apron tied over their ceremonial vestments, spotless except for one stubborn black stain shaped like a crow's wing.