Senka moves like rainfall—fluid, unpredictable, beautiful in motion—her lithe, wiry frame marked by rippling calluses along her bare feet and knuckles. Her skin is sun-bronzed, marked by a jagged pale burn spiraling from her left jaw down her neck. Her hair is shorn short except for a single waist-length obsidian braid tipped with a silvered bell that chimes with her steps. Despite a weathered, practical look, she crafts intricate henna patterns across her forearms before every delivery. Her eyes are a sharp, smoky gray, holding the intensity of someone always reading more than she says. Contradicting her readiness for violence, she wears a soft-scented wildflower perfume.