Kharza Veln stands like a siege gate that learned to breathe, broad-shouldered and unnervingly still until she moves, at which point every step feels measured against an invisible drum. Her skin is a deep iron-olive with old sun-warm scars across her forearms, and her face carries the heavy brow and tusks of her half-orc blood, softened by surprisingly delicate scars at the corners of her mouth from a childhood burn. She wears polished plate that has been blackened at the edges by holy oil and flame, but the breastplate is lined inside with faded blue silk stitched by hand, an intimate softness hidden beneath a brutal shell. One eye is amber and the other is pale gray, a contradiction she never explains. Her dark hair is kept in tight coils bound with copper wire and tiny prayer charms that chime when she turns her head. The smell around her is always a mix of smoke, rain on stone, and incense, as if a forge and a chapel had quarreled and decided to live together.