Lyranel moves like a drafting compass given breath: precise, economical, and forever measuring. She is tall and willow-slim, with the elongated grace of a high elf softened by the permanent grease of a workshop's life. Her clothing and person carry a deliberate contradiction: immaculate, embroidered robes of moon-silver thread (patterned with diagrams of gearwork and ley-lines) that are always flecked with dark oil and fine metallic filings. Her left forearm is encased in a polished brass-and-ivory gauntlet — a prosthetic of her own making — inlaid with ivory runes that glow faintly when she speaks of invention. Tiny mechanical motes of glass hover in braided silver filaments above her shoulder like captive fireflies; they twitch when she is excited and dim when she is thinking. She favors low, practical boots that whisper across marble. Up close, one notices the faint scent of ozone and lavender and the soft rasp of calluses at the tips of her fingers, evidence of a life that writes with silver wire as easily as she writes with ink. The unexpected element: when she laughs — a rare, bright sound — her music hands (the fingertips of her gauntlet) tinkle like a small, well-tuned bell, entirely at odds with her otherwise clinical bearing.