Madame Heloise Brightmantle is draped in a flowing, patchwork aubergine gown with embroidery at the cuffs, her every movement trailing the faint scent of beeswax and rosemary. Her skin, weathered and translucent like spun parchment, contrasts vividly with an ever-present flicker of elven youth in her eyes. A silver streak cuts boldly through her thick, tightly-braided chestnut hair. Her fingers, gnarled yet agile, are perpetually stained faint blue from tending to rare, noctilucent herbs behind the inn. She moves with a nimble confidence, cane tapping with calculated rhythm, but those who observe closely may catch the fleeting stiffness hinting at old injuries.