Sella is a narrow, weather-hardened human woman with a face mapped by old burns, wind cuts, and one pale scar that pulls the left corner of her mouth into a permanent almost-smile. Her skin has the dry, fine texture of cracked leather, but her hands are surprisingly gentle, with careful fingers stained black by grease. She moves with a slight forward stoop, as if leaning into a constant wind, and walks with the deliberate balance of someone crossing a moving wagon roof. Her patched respirator hangs at her throat when she speaks and covers her nose and mouth whenever the air turns chalky. The unexpected thing about her is how immaculate her nails are. She cleans them every night with a sewing needle, even when the rest of her looks dragged through an engine fire. She leaves behind an impression of rust, peppermint, and watchful patience.