Selathriel moves like a page turning slowly—deliberate, almost musical. Her gait is the quiet confidence of someone used to crossing city roofs and library stairwells alike. She wears a half-cape of patched map-cloth embroidered with ink-stitched constellations; the lining is a constellation of tiny bronze gears and stitched runes that sometimes tick faintly. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips, and her left forearm is fitted with a pewtered artificer's bracer whose tiny lenses slide and fold open at a thought. When standing still she tends to tilt her head so a braid of moon-silver hair falls over one shoulder, revealing a faint, silvery scar that runs like a paragraph from temple to jaw—an old rune-burn in the shape of a punctuation mark. Unexpectedly, the hems of her robes are always dusted with coastal sand from wherever she last slept, an odd contradiction to the prim, librarian's air she cultivates.