Lyssara Veyrath fills a room without seeming to occupy much space. She stands with relaxed shoulders, chin slightly lifted, and her head tilted as if weighing words that have not yet been spoken. Her delicately rounded cheeks and narrow chin soften the elegant angles of her elven cheekbones. Tiny freckles cross the bridge of her light olive nose. Her tightly braided auburn hair is cut short around the nape, each braid bound with dull copper thread. Her dark green eyes contain scattered amber flecks, and her controlled, almost sleepy expression becomes startlingly intense whenever she focuses on someone. She moves with quiet economy, placing each foot as though the ground has already told her where it is safe. The unexpected contradiction is that her hands are heavily callused and scarred from years of bowstring, bramble, and fieldwork, despite the refined bearing expected of a diplomat. She leaves behind the impression of a patient woodland animal that has learned court etiquette without surrendering its instincts.