Wears the air of someone who has run a thousand late nights. Tamsin moves with the measured economy of a seasoned host and the quick reflexes of someone used to slipping away when things go wrong. Her face has soft laugh lines but a thin pale scar runs from the left cheekbone to the jawline like a remembered argument. She favors practical, layered clothing that hides pockets and small tools. She often has one hand stained with beer or ink, a small coil of black thread wound around a finger, and a single black crow feather tucked behind her ear as a private talisman. Unexpectedly, she hums bright, childish nursery tunes when nervous, a contrast to the sharp efficiency in her eyes.