Short, deliberate movements layered with mechanical grace. Rita has weather-polished hands that betray decades of metalwork, and faint oil stains at the nail beds that refuse to leave no matter how often she washes. She keeps a row of tiny clockwork birds pinned along the collar of her coat that twitch when she thinks, and her left forearm is fitted with an ornate brass prosthetic she fashioned herself and can swap for different tool-heads. When relaxed she hums a low, dissonant tune that sounds like a gear train coasting down; when angered she suddenly speaks with clipped, economical phrases. Unexpectedly delicate: she treats fragile glass vials and old tomes with the same tenderness she uses on humming arcana engines.