Lyra is a tall, narrow-shouldered elf whose presence seems to arrive a half-second before the rest of her. Her skin is warm olive with a fine dry sheen from years spent among forest roads, wagon canvas, and powdered trade goods. Her copper-brown hair is braided tightly at the temples and gathered into a heavy knot that sways like a pendulum when she turns. Her hands are elegant but rough at the fingertips, stained green beneath the nails by alchemical leaves and sealing wax. She moves with the economical glide of someone accustomed to crowded markets, never colliding with anyone because everyone else unconsciously makes room. Her smile is bright, practiced, and almost generous, while her stillness becomes unnerving when she is truly angry. The unexpected contradiction is that she smells faintly of crushed mint and damp soil, not expensive perfume.