Aldren Diremount is a towering leonin whose mane has gone iron-gray at the temples, the rest braided into thick cords bound with storm-blue beads and tarnished gold rings. His fur is the color of sunlit wheat over dark amber, worn smooth at the shoulders from years of armor and temple robes resting there in equal measure. He moves like a siege engine that learned discipline, every step measured until anger or ritual snaps him into sudden, startling speed. His left cheek bears a crescent scar that always looks damp, as if rain has just traced it, and one ear is split by an old blade wound. The contradiction that makes people stare is the delicacy of his clerical vestments, which are embroidered with tiny silver rainclouds and bellflowers, hanging over a frame built for war. When he smiles, it is broad and fatherly, but his eyes flash like a summer squall that has already decided where lightning will strike.