Elara is a woman of sharp angles and avian grace. She has a high, regal forehead and a thin, aquiline nose that gives her the perpetual look of someone smelling something unpleasant. Her posture is unnaturally straight, maintained by a corset of steel-boned whalebone. Though her hands are calloused from managing the ledgers and occasional heavy machinery of the mill, she hides them under silk gloves. Her silk dresses, imported from the capital, are stained with the fine white dust of flour and the dark brown mud of the village paths, creating a jarring contrast between her assumed status and her gritty reality. She moves with a stiff, rhythmic click-clack of her silver-buckled shoes, never looking at the ground as she walks.