Elswyth is a tall, pale woman whose stillness feels deliberate rather than frail. Her silver hair hangs in two heavy braids, each strand fine as spun wire, and catches blue-white highlights even in candlelight. Her skin has the faint translucent quality of polished wax, though tiny silver scales sometimes appear along her wrists when she is angry or exhausted. She walks with a dark wooden stick she does not need, planting it with a precise click before every third step. Her movements are formal and economical, but when startled she turns with the sudden, fluid speed of a striking serpent. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: broad, scarred, and work-worn from years of gathering roots, yet capable of arranging dried flowers with astonishing delicacy. People remember her as looking simultaneously older than the village and more alive than anyone in it.