Selirien moves with the fluid grace of a willow in a gentle breeze, his lithe form cloaked in finely woven robes embroidered with sigils of arcane diplomacy. His skin is as pale and smooth as polished ivory, except for faint, silvery scars on his left forearm, remnants of a past duel. His hair, a striking shade of midnight blue, cascades long and loose to his shoulders, often streaked unintentionally with strands of pure white like lightning frozen in silk—the contradictory sign of youth and ancient arcana. His emerald eyes, sharp and intense, glint with both warmth and calculation, framed by thin angular eyebrows that twitch ever so slightly when he’s deep in thought or irritation. Unexpectedly, Selirien wears a pair of heavy steel-toed boots beneath his elegant attire, a silent testament to his readiness for conflict despite his ambassadorial role.