Saelir moves with a long-limbed, economical grace like wind through reeds. He wears a moss-green hooded cloak patched with hides and travel stains; the cloak's inside is lined with faintly luminescent lichen he cultivates. His face is angular and weather-lined, with a thin pale scar that arcs from left cheekbone to jaw—an old talon-scratch. He braids a single black-and-silver thread into his dark hair behind his right ear: a civic braid denoting his service to Silvergrove. Unexpectedly, he carries a small carved wooden flute tucked beside his quiver; when he plays it, his usually guarded expression softens and his eyes—an ice-blue ring around deep green—glow faintly. His movements combine predator focus with casual attention: he will freeze like a statue at the scent of smoke, but hum tunelessly while repairing a boot.