Ianthe Pell is a tired, narrow-faced human woman whose presence feels more durable than imposing. Her temples are shaved clean, while the remaining iron-brown hair is braided into a short, practical tail threaded with gray. Her skin has the dry, weathered texture of someone who sleeps beside lamp smoke and spends too much time outdoors. She moves with careful economy, never wasting a gesture, yet her jaw works constantly as if she is silently sorting arguments between her teeth. When she laughs, which is rare but genuine, she exposes a row of small, blunt teeth stained amber from lampseed tea. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: broad, callused, and work-worn like a mason's, despite the delicate precision with which she handles council papers. She leaves people with the impression that they have just been measured, filed, and quietly remembered.