Sarra moves like a creature of two climates: the compact steadiness of southern summers braided into the long-limbed, efficient motions learned under taiga skies. Her skin is weather-creased but warm, like leather that has been oiled and cared for; she keeps her beard-length braid looped and wrapped in thin iron rings salvaged from old harnesses. Her hands are large, knuckles callused and scarred in a palimpsest of work and fight — one knuckle bears a faint diagonal healed split where a knife once nearly took a hand. She favors a high-collared leather apron over layered wool and fur: the surprise is that beneath the thick working layers she wears a thin, embroidered southern shift in faded indigo patterned with creeping vines — a private nod to the home she seldom speaks of. When she walks the shop, each step is slightly off-tempo, as if keeping time to some internal rhythm; when she talks about metal, her eyes sharpen and she moves with precise, almost balletic economy.