Kioeril moves like wind through reeds: deliberate, slightly bent at the shoulders as if listening. His face is long and weathered in a way that suggests many nights under leaves rather than stone; faint scars like root-marks trace his jaw and temple. He wears a moss-stained hooded cloak layered over bark-brown leathers, threaded with living lichen that shifts color with the light. Across his back is a gnarled staff made from an uprooted oak sapling, studded with iron nails smoothed by time and wrapped with fox fur. Unexpectedly, tucked into his belt is a small, polished silver pocket mirror — an object of obvious craftsmanship that clashes with his otherwise wild look. When he walks he leaves a faint scent of wet soil and crushed pine needles, and birds fall silent in his presence more than they flee.