Thessan is tall even among satyrs, all narrow shoulders, rope-firm limbs, and long, careful joints. Her weathered umber skin is crosshatched by sun, dust, and years spent outdoors carrying ledgers between mountain settlements. Iron-gray hair falls in a thick, uneven braid down her back, threaded with dry grass, copper wire, and the occasional paper seal. Her long curling horns are dark at the roots and pale near the tips, each surface carved with tiny memorial markings that spiral like writing on old bone. Her fingertips are permanently stained blue-black from archival ink, and the smell follows her, sharp iron, crushed berries, beeswax, and rain-damp paper. She moves with the quiet economy of a stalking animal, yet her laugh is unexpectedly loud and warm, startling as a cooking pot dropped on stone. People often notice that she looks fragile until she lifts a full document chest with one hand.