Short and powerfully built, Murna moves like someone who has spent a life bending sparks to her will: deliberate, economical, and always with both hands half-remembering a rune's stroke. Her face is streaked with soot and old weld-burn silvering the furrows around her eyes; tiny burn scars crowd her left cheek like punctuation. Her fingers are slim and nimble — callused pads at the tips, faint inlaid rune scars along the second knuckles that glow faintly when she concentrates. She wears a heavy leather apron studded with brass rivets over layered charcoal-grey tunics; hanging from the apron are dozens of tiny vials, a set of folding chisels, and a small iron cube used as a runic reference. Unexpectedly, she carries a child's woolen mitten pinned to her belt — frayed and soot-stained — and she keeps it there despite its impracticality, as if it tethers her to something softer. When she walks the stone galleries of Kelethor Spire, sparks trail the hem of her apron and her footsteps sound like distant hammers. Up close, there's always a faint but distinct smell of hot iron and singed parchment.