Brezelle is a Chromavaft woman with skin like polished opal glass under a fog of faint inner light, shifting from pearl to lilac to sea-green depending on her mood. She wears her narrow braids pinned into a halo that seems almost too deliberate, though loose strands drift as if stirred by music no one else can hear. Her left hand is elegant and careful, but her right forearm is scarred by old heat-bloom marks from a tavern fire, and she covers it with lace only when she is grieving. She moves with the poise of a performer and the practiced speed of someone who has caught falling mugs for twenty years. The contradiction is unmistakable: she looks like a fragile jewel and handles heavy kegs like a dockhand. Her eyes are bright gold with thin silver rings around the pupils, and when she smiles it is always with one side of her mouth first, as if she is deciding whether you deserve the rest.