Omayi moves like someone used to lecturing to crowded halls: deliberate, with one hand often tracing invisible diagrams in the air. She wears a long, dust-faded robe embroidered with tiny silver sigils of dreaming gods; the robe's cuffs are clean and meticulously mended. Her right eye is bright and alert, while the skin above her left temple bears a thin, pale scar in the shape of a crescent — a souvenir from a reckless field expedition. When she walks she carries a battered leather satchel full of notes and a thin folded reed fan painted with an old map of sleeping shrines. Unexpectedly, she often hums nursery tunes in a low, almost private tone when thinking aloud, which both undermines and humanizes her scholarly authority.