Zahra is a lean half-elf woman with a long, work-worn face, strong brows, and an expression that suggests she has already found the flaw in whatever you are about to say. Her hands are the first thing most people notice. The fingertips are stained brown with ink, the nails cut square and short, and the skin along her thumb and forefinger has grown glossy from years of pressing quills into paper. She moves with economical precision, sliding between stools and stacked ledgers without disturbing a page. Her dark hair is braided close to the scalp on one side and allowed to fall in a heavy, uneven rope over the other shoulder. She looks severe until she laughs, which arrives suddenly and warmly, making her seem younger than she is. Her unexpected softness is a tiny brass bell tied inside her sleeve, which she rings once before making any difficult decision.