Syllen moves like someone used to walking on branch and ruin: each step measured, toes curling as if to grip invisible ledges. Their face is narrow, with a high cheekbone on one side and a faint, repaired scar that angles across the brow like a silver lightning flash. A lattice of fine, pale tattoos in the shape of spiderwebbed leaves runs from their left temple down across the throat and onto the collarbone; the ink shifts slightly when moonlight touches it. They wear a cloak of pleated, mirrored glass-silk that catches light in shards—beautiful and unsettling—over leather patched with moss and stitched feathers. When still they gives the impression of listening to something below the level of sound; when they speak their hands flick with small, precise motions as if tuning a compass. Unexpectedly, their fingernails are long and kept clean and polished with crushed ash—an obsessively domestic touch on a wild-looking figure.