Ilyra moves like someone used to stepping across fallen logs and wet boat planks: sure-footed, quiet, and with a slight forward tilt as if listening for things below the surface. She wears a patched dark-green leather jerkin that smells faintly of riverweed and tobacco; the leather is burnished smooth along the edges but dull where it has been stitched and repaired. Her left forearm bears a thin, pale scar patterned like a vine that curls from wrist to elbow — the raised skin looks almost decorative. Across her shoulders is a shoulder-sling of woven reeds that doubles as a sleeping mat, and small brass weights hang from her belt, used to steady fishing nets and the occasional thrown net. Unexpectedly, she keeps a child's porcelain doll head tied in a bit of red cloth to the inside of her pack — she treats it as an odd talisman, fond yet hidden. She rarely stands still long enough for anyone to fully take in her face; when she does her smile is crooked, quick, and unsettlingly candid.