Elenor is a reserved half-elf woman whose stillness feels more deliberate than restful. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe utilitarian knot, but several fine strands have escaped and cling to her temples with the faint oily sheen of sulfur-lamp smoke. Her skin is cool brown with a dry, paper-soft texture across the knuckles and a subtle gray cast at the fingertips from years of handling graphite, ash ink, and metal cipher plates. She moves with economical precision, turning her whole body only when necessary, as though conserving angles and observations. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice the quiet intake of breath before she speaks and the nearly invisible pause while she catalogues their face. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: narrow, ink-stained, and extremely gentle, handling fragile documents with the tenderness of a nurse tending a fevered child.