Tressa stands no higher than a tall child, with a wiry, sinewy frame honed by years leaping between brambles and burrows. Her sun-browned skin is the color of old walnuts and marked along one collarbone by a pale, twisting scar like lichen. Hair: wild, cropped unevenly with an old knife, sometimes bound with river grasses, shot through with feathers and the occasional glimmer of silver thread. Her eyes are an unexpected, haunting violet, at odds with the earth-tone palette of her clothes. She moves with restless, foxlike energy—lightfooted, twitchy, always tilting her head as if catching distant whispers. Though usually dusty and tangled, her boots are immaculately polished and adorned with tiny, mismatched buttons from all over the world.