Sylrin moves like someone perpetually measuring escape routes — light-footed, economical, and curved as a question. They wear an asymmetric smile and a habit of tilting their head so the light catches one cheekbone. Their clothes are layered and whisper-soft: a fitted smoked-leather jerkin over a slate-gray linen shirt, loose trousers tucked into worn calf-boots, and a long, moth-patterned scarf they tug at when uncomfortable. When still, they look almost fragile; when they move, a dozen tiny tools and braids announce they are anything but. Unexpectedly, they keep one gauntlet of brass chainmail on their left forearm at all times — not for protection so much as to hide a faded tattoo of a city ward number beneath it.