Short and squat like a hammerhead forging itself into the world. Her skin is line-riddled and soot-streaked, with a faint lattice of burn scars across her left forearm that glint silver when the sun hits them. Her hands are broad and callused, nails filed into neat flat edges and stained a permanent charcoal. She walks with the steady stomp of someone who measures distance by heart, each step ringing faintly as if she carries a hidden bell. She keeps a small braid of copper wire braided into her hair that hums when she concentrates. Contradiction: despite the grime and soot she always wears a delicate brooch of polished glass shaped like a teardrop, and she cleans that brooch each morning until it shines like a mirror.