Sionia's tall thin frame moves with a dancer's efficiency and a hunter's silence. Her gait is long and unhurried, as if the ground itself knows where she will plant her next step. She wears layered furs and patched leather over tailored human-style linen, a deliberate contradiction between her upbringing and ancestry. The furs are mottled gray and russet, the leather inked with tiny, almost-lost elvish runes along the seams. A crimson Red Hat is pinned crookedly to her shoulder, a faded scar of allegiance. When she rests, she often perches on the edge of things: fence posts, low roofs, the rim of a wagon wheel, as if the world is a vantage point to be read. One unexpected element is the careful way she polishes the brass barrels of her pistols with a scrap of silk, humming an old human tavern song under her breath.