Thalirien moves like a thought slipping between rooms: slow to enter, precise to observe, and quick to vanish from the edge of attention. Their robe is layered in panels of matte velvet and glossy threads that shift tone under light, giving the impression of a garment woven from evening and sheen. Along the left sleeve, dozens of tiny glass beads and silver filaments are stitched in the pattern of a constellation no scholar can name; as they move, the beads occasionally catch light and blink as if far-off lanterns. Their fingers are long and stained faintly with purple ink; the nails carefully buffed to a soft shimmer. An unexpected detail: their right eye is milky and clouded, an old injury, but when Thalirien studies a person they focus with that eye almost more intently than the good one, as if the cloudy pupil sees emotion rather than facets. They favor slow, deliberate gestures and habitually tilt their head when listening, producing an impression at once weary and razor-sharp.