Aisling Ryswell was born in the year 140 to Lord Cavan Ryswell and Lady Amya Blackwood.
A wrist-thick braid—intricately woven out of a silken wealth of midnight-hued tresses, like a cascade of tangible shadows and twilight — falls down her back to just past the curve of her waist, and even in the most meagre of lights it is tinted by a lustrous sheen of deepest indigo. What often draws the eye, however, are the bold streaks of bright silver at each temple, and tendrils of moonlight glint amidst the wisps of smoke which surround her face, tempering the keen edges of fineboned yet strongly defined features; a slim, refined nose of noble prominence between high, sculpted cheekbones, the steep line of her firmly set jaw and the sharply narrowing, determined chin. Within this distinctive frame, set below loftily arching brows and veiled by lengthy fringes of sooty lashes, are striking eyes of liquid darkness, tinged with a subtle shimmer of purple iridescence. These deceptively still, reflective pools are rarely rippled by rising tides of temper, but ardent emotions left undisclosed by that dark gaze are often betrayed by surprisingly sensual, garnet-hued lips, as suddenly given to frowns as to smiles, or smooth skin like pale ivory, easily touched by a faint blush in the heat of the moment. Of middling height, her form is sleekly lithesome, yet pleasingly ripe with soft, sinuous curves to which the supple, fluid grace of her movements is a fitting complement. Curiously at odds, however, is the air of cool, disdainful arrogance which often lingers around her and the warmth of her low, slightly husky voice.
Garbed in a more casual fashion, no doubt intended for outdoor activities rather than a courtly function, she wears an overgown of a bronze-hued brocade. It sports a rounded and relatively modest neckline—traced by a narrow band of embroideries in black—and elbow-length sleeves ending in wide openings—decorated in a similar fashion to the neckline—that trail down the length of her arms and a little further. The bodice is closely fitted, following the contours of her bosom as well as the bold curve of her waist and hips, and below it the skirt—slashed from hips to hemline on both sides—falls relatively straight down to a few hands widths above her feet, ending in a band of black embroideries. Beneath it she wears a linen undergown in a rust-red shade, with long, tight sleeves that come all the way down to her wrists and a skirt that touches the tops of the her lace-up boots of soft black leather. Wrapping twice about her waist, and hanging down in front to just past her knees, is a girdle of black cloth heavily embroidered with bronze and red.