Tall and willowy, Aeralis moves like a reed in a high wind — fluid, unpredictable, and always poised to catch a new current. Her hair is ash-brown braided into three thick plaits threaded with pale owl feathers, a single cobalt feather tied at the temple that shivers with static. She wears layered green and stone-gray linens that whisper and peel away with the smallest breeze; loose sleeves and a skirt split at the thigh so she can step lightly over roots and rooftop alike. Her skin carries the olive-gray sheen of long exposure to canopy shade and wind-burnished bark. She bears a faint silver bruise across her left cheek — an old sigil-shaped scar, more like a memory than a wound. On her back she keeps a curved, hollow horn carved from cloudstone; when she blows it in ritual, the plaza leaves in Sylvanreach rise into a lazy cyclone around her. Unexpectedly, Aeralis sometimes carries a bundle of dry city newspapers tied with twine — a human affectation she collects to study word-forms and gossip, which she smooths with reverential care between duties.