Nikita moves like a leaf on a fast current: quick, unpredictable, and quietly precise. She stands small even for a gnome but carries herself as if she occupies more space than she should. Her skin is a patchwork of faded green-gray paint, remnants of months spent trying to pass for goblin. The paint flakes at the edges and around her knuckles where the fighting and constant washing wore it thin. Her face is round with a blunt nose and a fierce jaw; there is a faint scar, pale and puckered, trailing from the corner of her mouth down her chin, a souvenir of one particularly brutal beating. She keeps one ear pierced with a bit of braided root and a tiny bone charm. Her hands are callused in strange ways—a healer's pads on the thumbs and the knuckles raw from fighting. Unexpectedly, when she laughs her laugh is excessively soft and birdlike, the sound of a nightingale, which jars against the roughness of her painted guise.