Nessa moves like someone who has spent years threading between crowded tables and swinging a broom. She is quick-footed and intentional in motion, always keeping the center of the room in her vision. Her face is sun-freckled, a small crescent scar at the left brow from a bar brawl long ago. Her hands are callused yet nimble, with faint scorch marks on the fingertips from tasting too many sauces. Unexpectedly, she always wears a pale silk ribbon in her hair that looks too fine for a tavernworker and smells faintly of lavender, a keepsake from her childhood that clashes with her otherwise practical appearance.