Sivra stands just a little under average height, but she carries herself like a sapling that learned to weather storms by bending instead of breaking. Her skin is sun-browned and faintly freckled, rough at the knuckles from bark dye and field work, while a crescent scar splits one eyebrow and gives her an expression that looks permanently skeptical even when she is amused. She wears practical layers of moss-green wool, rain-darkened leather, and a cloak stitched with dried reeds and fox teeth, yet the lining is surprisingly soft white linen embroidered with tiny stars. Her dark copper hair is usually braided tightly against her scalp, but one long lock always escapes and hangs over her left cheek like a deliberate act of defiance. Her eyes are a striking hazel gold, bright and alert, and they seem to shimmer more when she is angry or near running water. She moves with a careful, almost listening grace, as if each step is negotiated with the earth, but she punctuates solemn moments by chewing peppermint bark, which makes her seem oddly modern and out of place.