Ithran moves like a shadow that has read too many polite poems. He stands with a measured grace typical of his kind, each movement precisely pitched between curiosity and practiced caution. His face is narrow and refined, cheekbones like blade-etched silver, and his expression often wears the faint smile of someone who knows a punchline you do not. He keeps a pair of small brass spectacles low on his nose for reading faded script and stares over them when sizing a customer. Unexpectedly, his left hand is ink-stained to the wrist from constant ledger-keeping while his right wrist shows a neat ring of pale burn-scar tissue from an experiment gone wrong in his youth. When he walks the shop bell above the door tinkles like a musical note and his robes whisper as though they read along with him.