Elenor Green-Stride is a sharp-eyed half-elf woman whose wind-whipped black hair is threaded with premature silver and usually tied with red survey cord. Her skin is bronze-brown, weathered across the cheeks and nose, while her hands are broad, scarred, and permanently roughened by stone, bramble, and ink. She moves with the economical balance of someone accustomed to steep hills, but becomes visibly cautious near the hall's root-glass floor, stepping as if each pane might breathe beneath her boots. Her expression is severe at first glance, yet strangers often notice that she smiles whenever children correct her maps. She smells faintly of pine resin, lamp oil, and wet parchment. The unexpected contradiction is that this fearless public champion is deeply unnerved by enclosed spaces and refuses to sleep beneath a roof supported by living wood.