Compact and perpetually smudged with grease, Shara moves with springy, precise motions like a spider inspecting its web. Her fingers are callused and stained with oil, and she favors folding and unfolding small tools in the same rhythm when listening. She wears a pair of mismatched goggles; the left lens is a magnifier salvaged from a broken chronometer and bulges faintly. Unexpectedly, tucked beneath a weathered leather apron, she keeps a faded, embroidered scrap of human traveler's tapestry that she smooths when worried.