Skrivra moves with a coiled tension, every step measured and deliberate, like a predator stalking shadows. Her fur is mottled ash-grey with faint streaks of rust orange near her ears and along her spine, soft but dusted with a permanent film of dirt from the city’s underbelly. She wears a battered leather jerkin patched with scraps of metal plates, scars evident even beneath her clothes that speak of many close calls. Her left ear is torn almost cleanly at the tip, but what truly draws attention is the tiny, polished bone necklace she finger-twirls when nervous—a gift from a fallen friend, oddly elegant against her rugged appearance. Contrary to what one might expect from a ratfolk fighter, her movements can occasionally flow with a strange grace, almost reminiscent of a dancer, suggesting a concealed finesse beneath her rough exterior.