Hyracine has the torso and arms of a long-limbed elderly woman joined to the rangy body and powerful wings of a mountain vulture. Her feathers are dark umber at the roots and silver at the tips, giving her the look of storm clouds dusted with ash. Her skin is dry and finely ridged like old parchment, but her hands remain unnervingly delicate and steady. She does not perch so much as settle, folding herself into a crouch that makes her seem smaller than she is, then unfolding in one sudden, towering motion when challenged. Her breathing is audible at close range, a soft whistle through the nose followed by a thin rasp in the throat. Unexpectedly, she smells of juniper smoke and clean wool rather than carrion. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice that every loose feather, scrap of cloth, and hanging chain nearby trembles faintly when she speaks.