Sylthalyn moves like a reed in wind: slow, deliberate, and constantly listening. Her skin has the cool, slightly translucent sheen of moonlit bark; when she turns her face one sees a network of faint silver lines (vessel-like veins) along her temples that glow when she channels power. She wears her hair in a long braid threaded with moss and tiny polished bone beads that clink softly. Her ceremonial robes are layered — a rough, mud-stained linen undergarment, a finely embroidered cerulean outer robe shot through with silver thread, and a moss-green sash studded with dried petals. On her left forearm she bears a band of old burn scars that crackle faintly like cooled embers whenever she grows angry. Unexpectedly, her boots are mismatched: one soft leather slipper covered in runic ink, the other a battered iron-toed boot with chipped gilding — a small, stubborn compromise between pilgrimage and preparedness.