A broad-shelled tortal woman with a low, deliberate gait and the patient balance of someone accustomed to wet ground. Her shell is ridged like old riverstone, green-brown at the edges and pale as lichen across the crown, with tiny sprigs of thyme growing from cracks she has carefully filled with dark soil. Her eyes rarely settle on a speaker's face. They travel instead to hands, boots, doorways, nearby plants, and anything that might conceal a threat. She wears a constant expression of mild disapproval, yet her hands are astonishingly gentle. The contradictory impression is immediate, she looks built to endure a siege, but handles every seed as though it were a sleeping bird.