A broad, calming presence in a flour-dusted apron. Shirly's gray, leathery hide is matte like old stone but soft at the joints from years of washing plates; flecks of dried chopped herbs cling to the creases around her wrists and behind her ears. Her tusks are long, polished to a warm sheen and engraved with looping floral filigree—an engraving she adds to whenever she feels a story deserves a remembrance. Large ears fan and twitch constantly, the veins showing a slow, steady rhythm when she listens. She moves with surprising lightness, as if years of carrying barrels taught her to place weight precisely; her steps are deliberate and almost balletic for someone her size. Unexpectedly, when she is sewing or painting, her trunk becomes delicate and precise, handling needles and tiniest brush bristles with the same steadiness that moves a laden tray.