Tala the Hewer looks as if she was forged by years of heat, steam, and worry. She is broad through the shoulders, with a stooped but stubborn posture that straightens instantly whenever someone mentions debt, danger, or disrespect. Her skin is weathered copper-brown, marked by flour dust in the creases of her knuckles and a faint burn-scar that runs from wrist to elbow on her left arm. Her hair is iron-gray, cut unevenly at jaw length and usually pinned back with a spoon or a nail, while one stray white lock always escapes and sticks to her forehead like a banner of bad luck. Her eyes are a pale hazel ringed in amber, sharp and sleepless, and they seem to weigh every person in the room before they have even sat down. She wears a clean apron over a patched linen shirt and a dark green vest, yet her hands are ringed with small silver bracelets that jingle softly and look far too elegant for a tavernkeeper. The unexpected thing about her is the delicacy of her touch, which contrasts with her rough appearance; she handles glassware, wounded guests, and angry drunks with the same careful precision.