Nithaan Vaelith moves like a candle flame in a draft, never fully still, always bending toward the nearest sound. Her eladrin features are sharp but softened by age and confidence, with skin like pale moonlit birch marked by faint silver freckles that gather around her temples like spilled stardust. Her hair is a heavy waterfall of deep blue-black curls shot through with frost-white strands, worn half pinned with broken harp tines and half left loose so it brushes her shoulders like ink in water. One eye is winter green, the other gold like old honey, a contradiction she never explains and that seems to change subtly in certain lights. She wears a velvet coat of midnight teal over practical travel leathers, but the sleeves are lined with dazzling court embroidery and the hem is scorched in several places from long-ago arson, making her look equally ready for a ballroom or a battlefield. The strangest thing about her is a laugh that sounds almost brittle until it blooms into something warm and startlingly young.