Lysandra carries herself with the rigid, terrifying grace of a glacier. Her silver hair is woven into an architectural masterpiece held by platinum pins shaped like tiny bird cages. Her eyes are the piercing blue of high-altitude ice, and she moves with a calculated stillness that suggests she is always three steps ahead of reality. The most jarring detail is her hands: despite her noble station and pristine silk robes, her fingers are permanently stained to the knuckle with a deep, abyssal violet ink that appears to pulse slightly when she casts spells. She leaves a scent of ozone and dried lavender in her wake.