Lysa moves like a story told in a whisper: lithe, precise, a measured economy of motion. She favors layered leathers that rustle softly with every step, a ledger strapped to her hip like a talisman. Her face is narrow and weathered at the edges where a life of candlelight and late nights has left fine lines; a thin, pale scar arcs from just below her left ear to the jawline and is often hidden beneath a dark scarf. Her fingers are stained with ink and oil; her right index finger bears a tiny crescent burn from a lamp flame she refuses to speak of. She keeps one sleeve rolled to reveal a carefully concealed tattoo of the guild's knot on the inner forearm. When relaxed she smiles easily and has an absent, almost childlike habit of tapping the ledger's corner as if counting things that only she can see. Unexpectedly, beneath the shopkeeper's practical leather there's the soft gleam of well-kept jewelry: a silver ear cuff shaped like a vine and a single onyx ring worn on her left thumb that she polishes with trembling reverence when thinking.