Ilena moves with a windlike grace, shoulders loose as if perpetually listening to an offstage breeze. She wears a tangle of braided hair pinned with copper wires that hum faintly when lightning is near. Her robes are patched from coastal merchant banners and dyed in shifting teal and gray; when she moves, the hems ripple like sea-slicked cloth. One sleeve is always cuffed high, revealing a lattice of pale, raised scars along her forearm — the oldest scars are almost silver, like dried lightning. Her left hand bears a thin black ring etched with tiny runes; it never leaves her finger even in sleep. The overall impression is of someone whose presence is both calming and likely to alter the weather within a few miles. Unexpectedly, she keeps her boots meticulously polished and sing-song whistles as she walks — a contradiction to the salt-stained, windswept look she cultivates.