Thalia moves like someone who has spent equal parts of life on the road and behind a counter. She favors practical posture: shoulders squared, hips ready to pivot. Her face is weathered at the edges but not worn—crow's feet at the eyes, a faint vertical scar through the left eyebrow that she never mentions. She keeps her left sleeve rolled almost always, revealing a faded, intricate tattoo of a galloping horse threaded with vinework in an elven style. Her hands are callused but precise; nails usually stained with ink or ale. She wears a leather shoulder harness over a linen blouse and a hooded riding-cloak when outside; in the taproom she loosens the cloak and knots a silver spur—an old racing spur—on a post above the bar, a small ritual that settles her. Unexpectedly, she hums lullabies in the ancient elven cadence while counting coin, a soft contradiction to her watchful, hunter's gaze.