A small, energetic halfling no taller than a foot and a half who moves with the restless, skittering gait of someone always ready to bolt. Her skin is dotted with faint, purposeful knife scars arranged like a bizarre embroidery. She keeps her braided hair in two messy loops that sway when she turns her head like a metronome. Her maid uniform is crisp and almost obsessively clean, the starched apron precisely ironed, but the skirt is cut short for mobility and shows guerilla-style patching from battlefield repairs. She wears tiny leather booties that make no sound, and her pockets bulge with needles, lighters, and tiny trinkets. Unexpectedly, strapped beneath her apron is a battered, childlike plush fish with one eye missing and soot stains on its belly, which she treats with ridiculous tenderness. When she pauses she often tilts her head too close to examine small crumbs on the floor, then laughs in a high, delighted squeal if she finds a speck of dirt to pluck out.