Veshra moves like a current—sinuous, never abrupt. Her skin has the pearl-sheen of deep water, mottled with faint, silvered scales along her forearms and collarbone that catch the light like fish scales in sunshine. Her left hand is wrapped in a weathered leather bracer inlaid with beaten copper and a single crackled aquamarine shard; when she uses magic, tiny motes of salt fog blossom from that shard and briefly hang in the air. Her hair is long, dark, and wet-looking even when dry, threaded with thin, sea-glass beads and a single braided strip of white whale-bone; it drifts around her shoulders as if underwater. She wears practical, salt-stained naval garments layered beneath a ceremonial blue-green cloak embroidered with wind- and tide-motifs—an unexpected contradiction: beneath the elegant cloak, her trousers are reinforced, patched, and covered in soot from spent lightning lines. Her gait is calm and deliberate, but when angry the motion becomes staccato, like a ship shuddering through choppy seas. Up close, she smells faintly of ozone and citrus peel.