Ziravatha moves with a fierce grace, each step thudding with a barely contained fury. Her deep crimson skin carries faint swirling scars that shimmer faintly in moonlight, remnants of ritual burnings from her clan’s rites. Long, ash-black hair is braided tightly at her scalp but ends in an odd tumble of loose curls that seem untethered and wild, as if reflecting her untamed spirit. Her horns twist forward and downward like gnarled roots, cracked near the right base—a contradiction to her formidable presence is the almost perpetual smudge of soot around her nostrils, earned from her habit of melting metal with fire when she’s alone. Despite her bulk and muscular frame, her eyes, a piercing molten gold, hold unexpected depths of sorrow and suspicion, often scanning surroundings even in moments of calm.