Ishara moves like a slow saxophone line: deliberate, sinuously paced, every step measured to a beat only she hears. Her auburn hair falls in glossy waves to the middle of her back, the tips faintly singed as if she'd once stood too near a stage light or a conjurer's flare. She favors vintage wrap dresses re-cut to fit her lithe elven frame and often wears one long black glove even when it serves no practical purpose. Close up, her skin is the pale porcelain typical of woodland elves but freckled along her nose when the sun finds her. Up close still, you notice a fine white scar tracing the length of her left index finger—thin as a needle—reminded of a past that was violent and precise. The impression she leaves is of someone who once sparkled in limelight and would rather vanish into the smoke than risk speaking of it; she is at once magnetic and subtly tired. Unexpectedly, she sometimes taps a small brass metronome she carries in her pocket as if needing a human-made rhythm to anchor her old songs.