Ilyra Velvet carries herself like silk folded over iron. She favors flowing garments that whisper when she moves and are layered with hidden pockets sewn into seams. Her skin is warm and well cared for, but her hands show the faintest calluses from years of writing receipts and lighting lamps. She wears a small crescent of beaten silver at the base of her throat and a single hairpin carved from pale bone shaped like a key. When she laughs she exposes a small gap between her front teeth and tends to tilt her head as if cataloging the listener. Unexpectedly, she favors practical riding boots under her skirts, and when pressed for action she can move with the quick, assured steps of someone used to travel and danger.