Anachia moves like a storm: heavy, inevitable, with every step slushing peat and reeds. Her glossy black plumage is matted and often flecked with swamp mud and white bone dust; feathers along her shoulders are ragged from fights and sleepless nights. A stark white handprint crosses the left side of her face — not paint but an old tattoo, the edges cracked and raised where the ink sank into scar tissue. Her beak is blunt and nicked; one nostril bears a faint scar from a barbed trap. She wears a single, enormous bleached reptile skull as a pauldron over her right shoulder, its teeth forming an ugly crown above her arm. A crude harness of blackened leather crosses her chest, leaving most of her torso armored only by tough feathers and the pale leather straps; a heavy kilt of shaggy black fur hangs from her hips, cinched by a belt of interlocking white vertebrae. In an unexpected contradiction, she keeps a small, polished mother-of-pearl whistle tied to that belt — delicate, clean, and utterly out of place against the savage regalia. Her hands end in callused, clawed digits, the left wrist wrapped in a strip of cloth smeared with soot and cologne of swamp resin. Up close, when she lets her guard slip, you can see grief in the set of her eyes: a dull amber rimmed with red, the look of someone who is always calculating what she might lose next.