Aeliryn moves like wind through reeds—deliberate, soft, and always listening. She wears her hair in a long, unbound braid that seems to shimmer faintly at the tips as though threaded with moonlight; individual silvery strands catch and slide through the braid when she turns her head. Her robes are patched and mismatched: a once-fine moonblue surcoat over a practical traveler's tunic, hemmed with thread from dozens of small pilgrim offerings. On her left wrist, a narrow brass cuff is etched with small symbols of the phases of the moon and a child's name hidden beneath a rubbed-down flourish. When she walks she carries a small lantern of blue glass that never fully extinguishes even in rain. The contradiction that makes people blink: despite her soft voice and wan clothing, her eyes are sharp and sardonic, and she wears a pair of combat-worn leather boots that have seen roads no holywoman should tread. She leaves the impression of someone who has surrendered luxuries but keeps a few necessary weapons and a stubborn stubbornness to her beliefs.