Keliwra stands barely over 3 feet, shoulders slightly hunched from years in tunnels but carrying the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed. Her skin has the dusty, mineral-sheen of cavestone and is pitted in places like old, polished basalt. She wears a collar of hammered mica platelets that catches torchlight and throws it back like faint stars. Her movements are deliberate and economical—she favors small, precise gestures and rarely steps far without feeling the ground first with the toe of her boot. Unexpectedly, she keeps one human-sized silk glove folded into her sash; it is too fine and bright for the underdark and always seems slightly out of place, an ornament to a life she once glimpsed above. When she speaks she often tilts her head the way a cartographer peers at a map, as if measuring a person's words for scale.