Aelorn moves like a willow in a breeze: long, deliberate steps with a dancer's economy of motion. He wears a narrow-limbed look, fingers always restless as if strumming an invisible lute. His face is lean and angular, high cheekbones dusted with a faint scatter of silvery freckles that sparkle in certain lights. He keeps one sleeve rolled to mid-forearm to expose a thin, inked map that snakes from wrist to elbow — not geography but a constellation of names and dates only he understands. Unexpectedly, he carries a battered peddler's satchel covered in colorful trade tags and stamped receipts from towns across the coast; the satchel is patched richly and smells faintly of lemon oil and old parchment. When he smiles, the effect is warm and immediate, but his left eye — a pale, stormy gray — narrows often, as if gauging whether the world is listening.