Brena towers at nearly eight feet, her stony grey skin marbled with ink-blue swirling sigils carved and inked into her flesh. Her hair, pale as winter ash and braided with tiny silver bells, cascades down one shoulder. She keeps her arms bare to show faded scars, but her hands are soft, almost delicate—a jarring contrast to her otherwise sinewy build. She wears an old chain shirt whose rings have been painstakingly polished and a patchy wolf-fur cloak that's been stitched and restitched by many hands. Her movement is measured, economical, marked by moments of arresting stillness—as if she's freezing mid-breath to listen for something no one else can hear.