Elowen moves with the measured gait of someone who counts steps as points in an argument. She wears a tailored doublet that shimmers faintly where city-seal embroidery catches the light. Her posture is impeccable yet not stiff; the left sleeve is slightly singed at the cuff, a remnant from an incendiary protest years ago. The leather of her satchel is worn soft and smells faintly of ink and rain. When she walks she leaves a faint scent of beeswax and lemon oil, as if she has just polished a podium. Unexpectedly, she always carries a child's wooden spinning top in a small pouch over her heart and will spin it absently when thinking, a habit that contradicts her otherwise austere presence.