Sivra is striking in the way a half-healed bruise is striking. She has a narrow, expressive face, long pointed ears, and a smile that arrives a heartbeat before her trust does. Her movements are quick, loose, and easily redirected, as if every falling leaf or passing moth might suddenly become more important than the conversation. Despite her pretty features and elegant hands, she carries herself like a tired stablehand, shoulders forward and boots planted wide. Her beauty is interrupted by a crooked scar across her lower lip, and her hands are always nicked, stained, or smelling faintly of animal fur. The contradictory impression she leaves is of someone delicate who seems impossible to break.