A slight human woman with a composed, bookish bearing and an unexpectedly athletic way of moving. Her long white hair falls in heavy, silky ropes to her hips, usually tucked beneath a black newsboy cap and secured with colored thread rather than pins. Her purple eyes are bright and observant behind round spectacles, and her expression often suggests she has just remembered a private joke about the world. Her face is soft and youthful, but her smile reveals unusually broad front teeth and a lower canine worn flat from centuries of chewing pen caps, wax seals, and hard travel bread. Her hands are more memorable than her face: square-palmed, ink-stained, and callused along the thumb and first two fingers, with tiny paper cuts that never quite heal. She moves with a writer's habitual hunch until danger appears, at which point her posture becomes startlingly precise and dancer-light. The contradiction is immediate: she looks delicate and scholarly, yet handles locked doors, knives, and bad news with the confidence of someone who has survived all three for centuries.