Liaerith moves with the deliberate grace of a dancer yet exudes the calming stability of a seasoned herbalist. Her eyes are a stormy slate gray that flicker with quicksilver reflections when caught by candlelight. Her hair is a wild cascade of copper and silver strands, almost as if autumn and winter coexisted in her locks, framing a face marked with a faint, silver crescent scar running from her left temple down to her cheekbone—a souvenir from a mishandled explosive concoction. She wears layered robes of deep emerald velvet embroidered with alchemical sigils in golden thread, but surprisingly, her fingers are always stained with ink and herbal pigments, hinting both at a scholar’s precision and a craftsman’s messiness. When she moves about the cramped potion shop, stacked floor-to-ceiling with dried herbs, bottles, and arcane apparatus, there’s a stark contrast: poised and refined above the waist, but her boots are worn and smeared with dirt and crushed petals, betraying a life in the field that she rarely admits.