Lethiel moves like she is always crossing uneven forest ground, shoulders loose and silent, as if she expects the world to shift beneath her feet and has already learned how to answer. Her robes are stitched from moss-green linen, storm-gray wool, and strips of faded barkcloth that rustle like dry leaves. Tiny silver fungi grow in deliberate clusters along her sleeves, yet her belt buckle is a polished sun-brass emblem shaped like a dawn lily, a bright, almost defiant contradiction against her woodland garb. Her hands are stained with herbal resins and soot, and her fingers are long enough to seem almost spidery until they settle around a wounded animal with startling gentleness. She smells faintly of rainwater, woodsmoke, and crushed mint.