Larethiel moves like a ribbon in a breeze: slow, deliberate gestures with a dancer's economy. Her posture is perfectly straight but never rigid; when she walks through the tavern she seems to measure the room with the tips of her fingers rather than her eyes. Her clothes carry the faint shimmer of old stage lights: embroidered silver thread catching in dimness. She favors a long, ink-dark coat cut like a musician's tailcoat, layered over a fitted waist tunic of pale blue silk that smells faintly of citrus rinds and beeswax. A silver, needle-shaped hairpin is always tucked through her braid — not merely ornament but the tavern's iron reserve key. Contradiction: her hands are immaculate and precise, yet her left sleeve is perpetually ash-stained from tending the hearth and a habit of testing roasting meats with a smudged fingertip.