Raska moves like a prow cutting tide: sudden, sure, and purposeful. Her face is weathered more by salt and salt-spray than by age — deep crow's-feet carved by blinding sun and a grin that reveals a small silver-capped canine. She wears a leather vest darkened by oil, a faded blue-gray sash braided with scraps of sailors' flags, and a length of chain-mail patched and hammered into a skirt that clinks like distant surf when she walks. Scars map her forearms — one pale, star-shaped scar just below her left wrist from a lightning strike she claims swallowed her. Around her neck hangs a small iron idol of Talos, its features half melted by lightning and kept wrapped in oilcloth. Contradiction clings to her: though she is bulked with tough, practical gear and has the gait of someone who can climb rigging in a gale, she fusses over the placement of a candle and will rearrange rusted prayer-candles in the temple until each flicker mirrors the sea's rhythm.