She moves like someone used to commanding a room. Her steps are economical, each gesture measured to draw attention without seeming to try. Her hair is a blaze of copper that spills over her shoulders in loose waves and catches light like embers. Her eyes are vivid green like fresh cut grass in spring and when she looks at you it feels like she is reading the folds of your thoughts. Patterns of glowing tattoos travel across her exposed skin in filigree that slowly rearrange themselves; sometimes they form delicate script, sometimes they bloom into thorned vines, and once, when particularly excited, they shimmered like a tide pool. Unexpectedly, she wears a heavy, well-used wool cloak that muffles sound and smells faintly of salt and citrus, contradicting the high polish of her jewelry and the neatness of her hands.