A tall human man with the stillness of a closed vault and the precision of a master calligrapher, Aleron wears his authority like a well-maintained blade. His skin is sun-browned from years of crossing the city between counting houses, and his dark hair is iron-streaked at the temples, usually combed back with unnecessary care except for one stubborn lock that falls over his brow when he is angry. His eyes are a pale ledger green, sharp and tireless, as if they are always tallying the room. He moves with measured, economical steps, but the unexpected thing about him is the softness of his hands, stained with ink and faintly scarred as if he has spent as much time repairing books as breaking skulls. He wears a formal archivist's coat over polished mail, with a ring of iron keys at one hip and a white council sash that is almost always spotless despite the dust of old records.