Saelthir moves like a reed in a breeze — graceful, slightly tilting as if listening to a private cadence. His robes are impeccably neat but patched along the hem with tiny, mismatched threads of different libraries' sigils. When he walks he leaves no scuff on marble but often traces faint, accidental glyphs in dust with the tip of his staff. Contradiction follows him: his expression is serene and almost amused, yet his left hand is always stained with ink — not from writing, but from mixing pigments into invisible inks he tests on his own palm. Up close, the skin around his eyes reveals fine lines of someone who smiles often, but his jaw is set with an old, compacted resolve.