Tselira moves with the deliberate grace of a seasoned warrior softened by years of smithing. Her skin is weathered and salt-kissed, cracking like scorched leather. Deep-set scars ripple across her forearms, each a whispered memory of ocean battles. The edges of her tusks are filed smooth, hinting at a more civilized past. Her heavy hands, adorned with old fishing line and smith’s soot streaks, contrast with the gentle way she runs them along upturned faces of molten metal. Unexpectedly, her eyes shimmer a crystalline sea-green — almost hypnotic — reflecting both calm and storm. When she walks through the village, the sharp clank of her hammer on anvil echoes rhythmically behind her steps, a signature sound that marks her presence.