Elyr looks like a wanderer cut from moonlit fog and hard miles. Their skin has the warm matte sheen of river stone after rain, yet faint constellations drift beneath it when they move. Their hair is a tumble of ash-blond waves threaded with tiny brass beads, bits of twine, and one absurdly fresh blue wildflower that never wilts. One eye is clear winter-gray, the other a bright road-sign gold with a pupil like a narrow lane disappearing into dusk. They move with restless, economical grace, as if every step is measured against a distant horizon. Their hands are callused like a coachman's, but their fingernails are immaculate and faintly luminous, as though they were dipped in starlight. The contradiction that makes them unforgettable is the way their robe is both travel-worn and perfectly pressed, as if the dust of a thousand roads refuses to settle on them but never quite leaves either.