Pruuma fills a doorway like a falling doorframe — tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with surprising catlike stealth. Her tawny, bristled fur is trimmed short around the face but left long and muscled along her shoulders and forearms, where ceremonial braids of silver thread and black spider-silk are woven into coarse tufts. A jagged pale scar splits the left side of her muzzle from brow to jaw, puckered like dried lightning. Her favored garment is an open-fronted arena harness that exposes her pectoral muscles and a pelt sash from a black-furred warg; the harness is lacquered in concentric Drow house sigils painted in dark purple and pewter. She always carries a heavy, iron-studded morning star with a chipped flanged head — the weapon clanks like an approaching storm when she walks. Unexpectedly, she wears an ornate fan of delicate glass beads at her waist used in her ceremonial work — the beads tinkle with a sound she finds calming and which unnerves her enemies. Her walk is deliberate, like a predator showing its prey it is not in a hurry; when she laughs it comes out a hot, rumbling contralto that makes the room feel smaller.