Wera is broad through the shoulders, with a steady, work-worn build and a habit of standing as if bracing a heavy door. Her blunt fingertips are flattened and rough from years of fitting iron bands around wooden barrels. She wears her dark hair cropped short for the forge, and a plain wool scarf tucked beneath her chain shirt. Before speaking, she takes a small, audible breath through her nose, as if checking the air for smoke.

Practical and reserved, Wera notices whether a tool is maintained and whether a person does their share. She is gentle with apprentices and animals, but has little patience for polished excuses or people who treat labor as invisible.

Wera spent most of her adult life making barrel hoops and repairing the ironwork on carts at the village of Thistlewick, a place named for the thorny weed that grows through every crack in its lanes. The work was honest and the pay was not. When the mill's owner tried to force the coopers into a debt contract, Wera stood between him and the workshop door, holding a hammer she had no real intention of swinging. The mill owner backed down, but the guild quietly stopped sending her the better commissions.