Tressa Kael is a sharp-eyed brass dragonborn woman in her early thirties, with polished scales that carry the muted glow of sun-warmed metal rather than the shine of ceremonial armor. Her raven-dark horns sweep backward in a severe pinned shape, held in place by narrow iron clips etched with catalog numbers. Her amber eyes rarely settle on a speaker's face for long. Within moments of entering a room, they have already measured exits, hands, ink bottles, dust patterns, and the position of every document. She moves with a quiet, economical precision, gliding between shelves without disturbing hanging chains or loose pages. Her fingertips are permanently stained blue-black with ink, while the ridges of her knuckles are dusted with fine paper fibers. The unexpected contradiction is that her intimidating composure is paired with a small, almost delicate smile whenever she encounters an especially elegant piece of handwriting. When rattled, her breathing becomes audible and perfectly measured, like a metronome, while her voice grows softer instead of louder.