A broad-maned leonine officer who carries the weight of altitude in his posture: shoulders squared as if always bracing a wind. His mane is intentionally groomed into twin braids behind each ear, the rest flaring wide like a thundercloud; strands of silver run through the dark tawny fur as if lightning has been frozen in hair. His face is ruled by scars — pale, puckered lines that arc across his muzzle and cheekbones, the oldest forming a jagged map from temple to jaw that looks like the silhouette of Khar-Atir itself. He wears a battered but meticulously oiled leather flight-jacket layered over scale-sewn pauldrons; the jacket is embroidered with faded sky-blue sigils of his squadron. When he moves, there is a slow, deliberate economy: a calm that belies sudden, precise bursts of speed. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of baked citrus and rosemary, a scent that clashes with the iron tang of battle and the leathery musk of leonine fur.