Aletes is a slender, elderly man whose wiry frame seems almost ethereal, as if barely tethered to the world. His silver beard appears to writhe subtly, curling and uncurling on its own accord, defying gravity in a slow, hypnotic sway. His eyes, mismatched in shade—one pale sapphire, the other a warm amber—glimmer like twin runes reflecting hidden knowledge. His robe is a chaotic tapestry of deep indigos, cracked jade stones, and burnt sienna, festooned with ancient sigils and stains of various origin—some suspiciously resembling spilled berry jam. His olive-wood staff twists like a serpent, studded with tiny, glittering glass eyes that catch light unpredictably. Despite the battered look of his garments and staff, he moves with deliberate grace, each step measured as if he walks between echoes of moments past. Unexpectedly, when Aletes is deep in thought, a faint scent of warm bread and smoke trails behind him, a contradiction to his arcane aura.