Master Elidran Vale has the careful polish of a man who has spent more years behind counters than in courts. He is tall and narrow-shouldered, with ink-stained fingers, a dusting of silver at the temples, and a habit of standing as if he is perpetually mid-bow. His robes are tailored like a merchant's coat rather than a scholar's gown, lined in dark green silk and stitched with tiny golden sigils that catch the light when he moves. He wears spectacles with one lens slightly thicker than the other, and one sleeve is always rolled up to reveal a forearm wrapped in faded warding bands. The surprising thing about him is his smile, warm and almost boyish, which clashes with the severe metal bracer on his left wrist and the faint smell of ozone that follows him like a storm in a bottle.