Small, grease-speckled, and compact in all the right places. Lixa moves with a measured impatience that makes her seem taller than she is. Her hands are stained with oil in the grooves where delicate tattoos once were, and her fingers are ringed with tiny bands of copper and etched bone. She wears a pair of magnifying lenses perched on a brow scarred by a soldering accident. An incongruous element: beneath her carefully belted tool apron she keeps a handwoven scarf of soft sea-blue wool, frayed at the edges and smelling faintly of kelp and lemon. When she walks she rocks as if balancing invisible weights, and her pockets softly clink with gears that never quite stop moving.