Sylvaine stands with a slightly hunched posture, her movements sharp but unrefined, as if she’s part wild animal and part restless spirit. Her hair is cut into a jagged, outdated bowlcut, unruly and matted with patches of earth and twigs twining through the strands. Clinging to her shoulder always is a tiny, bright-eyed wren that chirps softly. Her face is marked by an annoyed, almost perpetual scowl that contrasts oddly with the delicate elven sharpness of her cheekbones. Her skin is scratched and smudged with dirt, and when she moves, a faint scent of moss and rain clings to her like a second skin.