Solenne is tall and spare, with the poised stillness of a prayer before sunrise and the unexpected roughness of someone who has carried too many mortals through storms. Her skin looks like sunlit parchment dusted with gold ash, warm to the eye and faintly luminous at the edges. Her hair falls in long pale braids the color of wheat left in moonlight, yet one braid is wrapped with a strip of blackened iron taken from a burned shrine, a contradictory scar she wears openly. Her robes are layered in whites, creams, and bruised amber, but the hems are singed and mended with bright blue thread in visible, deliberate stitches. When she moves, it is with a slow, protective grace, like a hand sheltering a candle from wind. Up close, her smile is gentle and tired, as if she has forgiven a thousand betrayals and remembers each one.