Shesuri looks like a man sculpted from moonlit bronze and then left too long beneath a winter sky. His skin has a fine, dry texture like polished clay dusted with silver, while faint lines of old celestial script show beneath it whenever he is angry. His hair is long, black, and threaded with naturally white strands that drift upward even in still air. Six wings emerge from his back in three uneven pairs. The upper pair is broad and pearl-feathered, the middle pair is narrow and smoke-gray, and the lowest pair resembles translucent sheets of blue glass veined with gold. He moves with unsettling economy, never quite shifting his weight before turning, as though gravity is a suggestion he has learned to tolerate. His hands are immediately memorable: the palms are callused and darkened from centuries of gripping a sword hilt, but the fingertips are soft and ink-stained from writing names into memorial books. Contradictorily, for a being who once commanded celestial armies, he smells faintly of cedar smoke, wet wool, and ordinary bread. People remember him less as radiant than as impossible to ignore, like a silent bell heard inside the ribs.