Orren is all angles and discipline, with a posture so straight it feels trained into her bones. Her pale skin has the faint waxy sheen of someone who spends too much time by candlelight, and her right wrist bears a silver prayer-scar in the shape of a broken chain. She wears a severe black coat lined with dark maroon silk, immaculate boots polished to a mirror shine, and a preacher's sash of iron-threaded crimson that never seems to wrinkle. The strangest thing about her is the tenderness of her hands: long-fingered, ink-stained, and careful, like a scribe's or a pianist's, in stark contrast to the ruthless crest pinned over her heart. When she moves, it is with clipped, economical precision, except when music takes hold and she sways with an almost devotional grace that makes her seem briefly possessed.