Lyrien moves like a sapling in wind: sudden bends, surprising spring, and a hush that follows her steps. She is small for even an elf, with limbs too long for her torso and feet that glance the ground as if testing it. Her skin bears a faint lichen-green dusting at the wrists and throat where she sleeps against bark; in bright sun those specks sparkle like pollen. She carries a sling of braided root-fiber and a twist of alder wood—her quarterstaff—no taller than she is. Unexpectedly, her left ear is threaded with a tiny silver bell chained to a carved insect of amber; it never rings loudly but emits a small, single tone when she laughs. Up close, the ends of her hair are tipped in a darker green as though dipped in moss, contradicting her otherwise moon-pale skin and the clean, deliberate neatness of her clothing.