Aurelyth Vael grows strikingly still before she moves, like a drawn bowstring waiting for release. Her skin is pale ivory with a faint pearly sheen, as though moonlight has settled under it, and her long gray hair is thin, wind-filigreed, and usually braided with black feather tips that tremble when she turns her head. One of her eyes is silver-green and sharp as flint, while the other is clouded by a narrow milky scar across the iris, giving her gaze an unsettling mismatched calm. She wears practical hunter's leather over a faded ceremonial sash of white silk, neatly mended with green thread in places where the old noble embroidery was burned away. Her body is lean and professional rather than delicate, all tendon and balance, and she walks with the quiet, measured glide of someone who has spent years stalking both prey and memory. The contradictory detail is her left glove, which is stitched with tiny bells that never ring unless she lies.