Gorla moves like a weathered siege engine — heavy-footed and deliberate, but with a surprising lurching grace when she wants to intimidate. Her face is a hammered map: a jagged scar arcs from temple to cheek where ritual iron once caught her, and one canine fang is filed into the shape of a tiny inverted spear, a mark of devotion. Her skin is pocked from old burns and ritual brands; ash and a stubborn smear of black incense resin always cling to the hollow behind her collar. She favors asymmetry: one sleeve is full and embroidered with stitched blood-red sigils, the other arm bare down to the elbow to show a braided leather cuff studded with bone beads. Unexpectedly, she carries and treats a limp, moth-eaten puppet — a child's ragged thing — which she props on her shoulder and sometimes consults as if it were an oracle. The puppet's one glass eye has been replaced with a polished black bead engraved with Eltab's mark, and Gorla sometimes kisses it in private.