Tharaz-Quul stands with the slow, efficient gait of someone who measures steps in bellows and anvil strikes. Their copper-bronze scales are matte where soot has been worked for years and burnished to a faint shine along their collarbone and face, like a mask touched by frequent polishing. A pair of horn rings loop a cracked left horn: one ring is braided iron, the other a filigree of silver in the shape of a songwave. Their snout bears a pale, crescent-shaped scar that hums when they sing a particular note. They favor a heavy leather apron laced with small metal plates stamped with clan sigils; the plates clink faintly like tiny bells as they move. Unexpectedly, their voice is clear and delicate — a singer's tenor that contradicts the rough, soot-smudged visage and the bulk of their hands. When they walk, coal dust clouds in soft puffs; when they pause, they often stand still like a bell waiting to be struck.