Brynna is a compact, coiled thing of muscle and ink. Her skin is a tapestry of swirling runic tattoos—hammered spirals and broken mountain-lines—that climb from the tops of her broad shoulders, along the stout neck, and fan across her cheekbones into a pale beard braided with silver wire. The tattoos are so dense across her forearms that the skin there seems black at a glance. She wears leather pants darkened with oil, a battered leather vest left open to show almost every tattoo and a chain of dull iron that threads between a cluster of lower-chest and hip piercings; the chain is functional as much as provocative, connecting rings and a small lock that clangs softly when she moves. Her left eyebrow is split and repaired with a tiny iron staple; one ear is studded with mismatched rings and studs of copper and bone. When she walks, it is like a spring coiling and releasing—short, decisive steps that end in a sudden, surprising lurch forward. Unexpectedly, despite her brutal visage she keeps a tiny porcelain teacup tucked into a hidden pocket and sips hot jasmine when she is nursing an old wound.