Ghorza is a mountain of a woman whose presence fills a doorway. Her skin has the color of a bruised plum, textured like salt-cured leather from decades under the sun. Her thick black hair is shot through with premature streaks of iron-gray, pulled back into tight, practical braids that reveal a silver-capped tusk. While her upper body remains intimidatingly muscular, her movement is slowed by a stiff left knee that clicks audibly when she pivots. The most striking element is her attire: she wears a heavily reinforced chain shirt beneath a flour-dusted canvas apron. She smells perpetually of toasted yeast, rosemary, and the metallic tang of whetstone oil. Her eyes are a startling, bright amber that seems to weigh the worth of everyone they land upon.