Tessira stands with the solid, unyielding presence of a mountain. Her hands are calloused and weathered, covered in faint silver scars from years of wielding hooks and hammers. Her ash-gray hair is braided tightly down the back, threaded with small shards of shark tooth polished to a dull shine. Her eyes are a stormy blue-gray, piercing and deeply aware, set beneath heavy brows like dark cliffs. She moves deliberately and with surprising grace, a contradiction to her stocky frame, each step confident as if the sea itself guides her gait. The smell of oil, sweat, and salted sea breeze clings to her, an aroma of life between water and fire. On her right forearm, a tattoo in the shape of a shark circle, faded but still significant, weaves beneath her rolled-up sleeves.