Morwen is alarmingly frail and bird-like, with parchment-thin skin stretched over delicate bones and shoulders that tremble even when she stands perfectly still. Her stark white hair floats around her head as if caught in a perpetual underwater current, occasionally knotting itself into shapes resembling letters. Her milky eyes glow with slow-moving silver swirls, and tears of luminous moisture gather in their corners without falling. She moves in abrupt, stuttering adjustments, like a marionette whose strings are being pulled from different moments in time. Despite her skeletal delicacy, her hands are broad-knuckled and scarred from decades of climbing frozen masonry. The contradictory impression she leaves is that of both a dying old woman and an immovable monument.