Eldra moves like a wind through leaves: slow, purposeful, and always offset by a barely perceptible sway as if listening to a root-song only she can hear. Her ceremonial robes are woven from living layers of young bark and moss; the bark curls and tightens with her breath and loosens to let in light when she smiles. Fingers are long and ink-stained with plant resins; knuckles are flecked with tiny calluses where she grafts and stitches new growth. The left ear bears a thin silver cuff shaped like a crescent moon; the right eyebrow has two white streaks — old burn scars from a lightning-blasted oak she failed to save. When still, a scent of rain, crushed nettle, and woodsmoke clings to her. Unexpectedly, Eldra always carries a small bone flute tucked into her belt — a relic from an exiled river-kin she befriended — and she will sometimes hum pauses in conversation as though answering it.