Zuri moves like a current: immediate, flowing, and never quite the same twice. Her skin is a light Pacific blue with tiny, irregular rivulets that catch light like wet glass. Her hair is a blue so pale it reads as white unless you stare; it is shaved on the left side down to a neat stubble while the right side tumbles to her jaw in water-soft waves that seem to drift half an inch away from her scalp. When she moves the long side brushes her face, leaving a thin crescent of white salt where it passes. Her left brow has a silver ring and several small studs; a tiny conch is threaded through the cartilage. She wears a short white cape that almost always has damp edges, a fitted leather corset scarred from practice parries, tight leather trousers, and well-worn boots with the toes scuffed by ship decks. Her gloves are fingerless and stained with ink and salt. Contradiction: though she smells faintly of sea and rain, she keeps a small, brittle paper book of dried, pressed river-flowers in a hidden pocket as if to preserve something fragile and landlocked.