Sava is a young half-orc woman with a narrow waist, powerful shoulders, and the compact, corded musculature of someone who has hauled timber, bellows, and wounded people rather than trained for display. Her movements are careful and economical, but when startled she turns with startling speed, as if her body remembers danger before her mind does. A few permanent scars mark her life: three pale rope-burn bands around her left wrist, a puckered cut along the outside of her right calf, and a cluster of tiny white marks across one shoulder from flying metal fragments. Her tusks are small and blunt, and she habitually presses her lower lip against one when thinking. She smells faintly of iron filings, dried mint, and woodsmoke, a scent she does not notice until someone points it out. The unexpected contradiction is her hands. They are broad, callused, and strong enough to bend a horseshoe, yet she handles cups, moths, and frightened children with almost ceremonial delicacy.