Aelithra moves like a finely tuned mechanism: precise, economical steps that end in a poised stillness. She is always immaculate — robes pressed, hair looped with tiny filigree pins — but her hands betray constant work: stained faintly with metal dust, a thin silver burn scar along the inside of her right thumb, and calluses that flash like pale ridges when she gestures. Her skin is cool and luminous like polished ivory, etched faintly with a lattice of white-silver scars that trace old ritual sigils around her wrists and throat. She wears a brooch fashioned from a single crescent of bluish iceglass that never melts; in dim light it seems to pulse. Unexpectedly, she chews a single piece of frozen mint candy when thinking, which fogs her breath into ghostly ribbons in heated rooms, giving her an air both ancient and childlike.