Elyssara moves like a memory recalled: deliberate, slightly out of sync with the immediate present as if the last half-second of her motion lingers in the eye. Her robes are cut in a layered, almost ribbon-like fashion that seems to ripple backwards for an instant after she moves. Her left hand bears a lattice of faint silvery scars arranged like clockwork teeth; when she gestures the scars glow with a thin, blue phosphorescence. She keeps a folding bronze lorgnette chained at her wrist that she peers through when counting or considering people — but it is used more to examine temporal eddies than eyesight. In sunlight the edges of her gown shimmer with the faint impression of stars, and at close range one can see tiny, embroidered sigils sewn with hair from different branches of her family. Unexpectedly, she carries a child's carved wooden spinning top in an inside pocket; when worried she fingers it, and it never seems to wear down.