Aelthyn moves like a half-remembered melody: gliding steps, barely disturbing leaves. He wears a tunic of silk that seems to shift hue with the light, threaded with faint, living runes like frost on glass. His face is angular with high cheekbones and a long, narrow mouth that curls into an inscrutable half-smile. One eyebrow is braided with thin silver wire and a single pale feather tied into it. His right eye is a luminous opal that shows slow, internal movement — a storm behind glass. The left eye is coal-black, pupil dilated like a wolf's. When he speaks, motes of faint starlight gather and dissipate around his lips for a heartbeat. Unexpectedly, the tips of his fingers are callused and stained with ink and soil — a contradiction to his elegant appearance: he habitually tends and draws in small pots of earth despite his high-born manner.