Aelira moves like wind through reed: long, deliberate strides punctuated by sudden stillness. Her hair is waist-length and pale as sun-bleached wheat, usually braided into a loose plait threaded with bone beads taken from creatures she tracked. She wears a tiny patchwork of tanned leather — a cuirass that leaves her belly and long legs exposed — so her skin gleams amber in sunlight and carries thin, silvery scars from thorn and barbed-wire hunts. Her boots are soft, the soles worn into whisper-silent pads. Unexpectedly, she favors a child's yellow ribbon tied around her left wrist, bright and cheerful against the hunter's practical gear, and she keeps a tiny bell hidden under her breastplate that she only rings to announce ritual beginnings. Up close, there is a scent of pine, river mud, and pressed herbs.