Tall and spare with the slow, economical grace of someone who spends hours standing at an orrery. Her skin carries the pale, windle weathering of long nights spent on cold towers. She wears a hairnet of woven silver thread that catches starlight and keeps her cropped white hair close to her skull. Her right eye is a glass lens with tiny etched charts that shift when she concentrates. When she moves she favors the left side, a scar along her ribs pulling that shoulder down; her fingers are callused from writing in ink and carving sigils. Unexpectedly, she always carries a child's wooden toy horse tucked in the inner pocket of her coat as a private talisman.