Lysandra stands with the careful stillness of someone trying not to spill a thought. Her face is sharp and elegant, with high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and a pale heart-shaped face that seems almost carved from moonlit porcelain. Silver white hair falls in smooth, straight strands to her chest, glossy as fresh frost and always a little too orderly, except for one rebellious lock that refuses every attempt to tame it. Her blue eyes are clear and piercing, flecked with silver like deep water under starlight, and they miss very little. She wears a crisp blue button-down shirt with the collar left casually open, half tucked into dark jeans that fit her lean, athletic frame, yet she pairs the modern outfit with a faintly old-world elegance in the way she carries herself. Her movements are precise but oddly cautious, like a blade wrapped in velvet, and the contradiction that makes people remember her most is that this severe, immaculate elf always smells faintly of rain-damp paper and sugared citrus. In a bedroom office with a futon behind her, she looks less like a warrior than a scholar who has survived several wars without ever fully admitting it.