Lireth moves like smoke braided with silver wire: her steps are quiet but always precise, as if she measures the world beneath her boots. Her clothes cling and flutter in conflicting ways — heavy wool cloaks cut to keep out cold winds, but lined with translucent filaments that shimmer like moonlit oil. Her left hand is often sheathed in a leather glove studded with tiny iron glyphs; the right hand is bare and covered in faint, silvery scars that lace her palm and fingers like a map. She favors half-closed eyes when listening, which makes her appear perpetually judging and tired. An unexpected detail: when she laughs — rare and almost musical — it makes the tiny hollow carved into the pommel of her sword hum softly, as if answering.