Eshra moves with the deliberate weight of bedrock. Her skin has the matte, packed-clay look of a riverbank at low tide: fine hairline fissures that sometimes dust away when she brushes her arm. Her hair is braided into a crown of thick cords, each braid inlaid with tiny carved sigils of stone and lineage — not painted but hewn, as if the hair itself were sculpted from shale. In sunlight the sigils sparkle like mica. Her hands are broad and callused; the knuckles have faint, permanent ridges that look like the growth rings of a tree cut through stone. She favors simple, heavy fabrics layered with hammered bronze and slate plates over her chest and shoulders. The unexpected note: when she laughs — rare and low — she coughs up a small, resonant chuckle that sounds like pebbles rolling in a clay dish, charming rather than grating. She often carries a short, hulking staff topped with a fossilized geode that hums if the ground nearby is disturbed.