Zrikka moves with an awkward, twitchy gait that almost seems like a dance—each step measured yet unpredictable. Standing just over 4 feet tall, her skin is a mottled seaweed green, rough and cracked in places as if weathered by salt and sun. Her wild black hair is tied back with strips of sailcloth but streaked with white from old stress and sea spray. She wears a patchwork leather coat heavily modified with pockets, straps, and stained bandages, hanging open to reveal a vest lined with small vials and crude medical instruments. A patchwork of tattoos in faded inks swirls over her forearms, mixing creepy sea symbols with crude smiley faces, a contradictory mix of dark purpose and strange levity. The unpredictability of her wide, amber eyes contrasts sharply with her sharp, always chewing teeth, often grinning unnervingly when making diagnoses. Her left hand is wrapped in leather and old bandages, a permanent reminder of a botched salvage gone wrong.