Tall and hooded, Ilse moves with the slow assurance of someone who has performed the same ritual motions for decades. Her robe is stitched with oak-leaf patterns worn nearly to threads in places, giving it the look of bark more than cloth. The left side of her face bears a pale, meandering scar from an old rite — a curved series of healed cuts that shimmer faintly in lamplight. Her hands are callused, the nails clipped short and stained with pigment from ceremonial inks. She favors simple leather greaves under her robe, and when she walks the sound is a quiet, disciplined shuffle punctuated by the soft jangle of brass prayer beads at her hip. Contradiction: though she exudes solemnity and forbids frivolity in the temple, she keeps a small, battered tin of bright blue chalk that she delights in using to draw tiny oak acorns on children's foreheads when they come frightened.