Sylirra moves like a story being told — fluid, deliberately paced, always leaving room for a laugh or a gasp. She wears a long, hooded cloak embroidered with tiny silver leaves that catch moonlight; beneath it is a fitted leather jerkin patched with mismatched fabrics and a sash of faded festival ribbon. Her left forearm bears a lattice of faint, pale scars in a spiral pattern (old burns, arranged like a sigil). When she walks she often toys with a fragile glass bead necklace that seems to contain a slow drifting of color, as if a miniature aurora lives inside. Up close her skin shows a faint iridescence at certain angles. Unexpectedly, she favors well-polished leather boots with metal caps that clack loudly — an oddly practical choice for someone who cultivates an air of whimsy.