Saelith moves with the quiet economy of someone who has spent a lifetime slipping between trunks and boughs. She is slender and wiry, every joint and tendon visible beneath tightly fitted wool and leather, but her movements are coiled rather than fragile—more stored spring than brittle twig. Her travel cloak is patched in oddly precise triangles of darker wool, each patch reinforced with a loop of leather sewn in an old knotting style. She favors high boots rubbed smooth at the toes, and a thin satchel that smells faintly of resin and crushed mint. When still, she often tilts her head as if listening to something no one else can hear; when she walks she seems to take the path animals would choose rather than the one people mark. Unexpectedly, despite her austerity and plain gear, she wears a single bright glass bead threaded on a leather thong around her wrist—an heirloom from a human friend that clashes with her otherwise muted palette and draws the eye.