Sharizahn moves like a woman who has spent decades walking palace corridors and cold library stacks: purposeful, economical, with a poised slight tilt of the chin. Her face is long and aquiline, the cheekbones sharp as a blade and the skin stretched thin over them; when she smiles it is a slice of pale amusement that rarely reaches her eyes. Her silver-gray hair is braided into a single thick rope and coiled high at the nape, threaded with narrow copper filigree and a single black feather—an odd flourish in her otherwise severe presentation. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips from copying texts, but knuckles are callused from ritual knots and the hefting of heavy ledgers. She favors a tailored dark robe lined with deep indigo silk embroidered with subtle, maze-like motifs of Alessea’s sigil; beneath the robe she wears a stiff, high-collared vest cut in Koribeean noble fashion. The unexpected element: she wears a child's braided wool mitten on her left hand when among family—no matter the season—an heirloom she refuses to explain or remove, and she tucks small slips of folded paper into its cuff.