Rassa is a compact cinderclaw woman with ochre scales dulled by years of volcanic dust and softened at the snout by pale, almost flour-white horn tips. Her jaw is broad and powerful, and when she laughs, the small blunt teeth along its sides show in an unexpectedly warm, lopsided grin. She moves with the quick, economical balance of someone raised on narrow ledges, keeping one hand free for a frightened animal even while climbing. Her leather harness creaks with whistles, feed pouches, grooming brushes, and little tins of harness oil. She smells of warm leather, fennel mash, singed wool, and drake musk, a scent she insists is merely 'good stable work.' The unexpected contradiction is her delicate habit of folding tiny paper flowers from discarded dispatch forms and tucking them into nesting stalls.