Lean and quick in motion, she moves like a cat that has spent a life learning ceilings as well as floors. Her skin carries the sun-bronze of someone raised outdoors but lived mostly in shadow, trimmed with faint scars along both forearms like tally marks of past thefts. Her hair is a cropped, wind-bleached black bob threaded with a single streak of silver the color of old coin. Her cloak is an organic, moss-green Natures Mantle that seems to shift faintly with the light and smells faintly of wet earth and lavender. Her studded leather gleams with the faint sigils of a craftsman who knew how to hide enchantments, and she wears the Gloves of Thievery so the seams along her palms never show wear. Unexpectedly, the left sleeve of her mantle is embroidered with childish drawings of constellations in a hand that is not hers, the only trace of old family tenderness on an otherwise guarded exterior. She often stands with one knee bent, weight forward, always ready to slip into a roofline or a crowd.