Veyla stands like a storm about to break. Her long red hair falls in tight curls that look almost like coiled rope, often damp with spray and threaded with tiny shells and a single length of green ribbon tied in memory of an old friend. She wears a black tricorne with a bright peacock feather that fans at an angle, the feather's eye glinting like a watchful eye. Her green leather jacket, stitched from kobold skin, fits like a second hide, polished until the scales darken to an oil-slick green at the shoulders. She favors a stance with one hip cocked, the saber sheathed at a rakish angle under her ribcage. Unexpectedly, a small pair of well-kept children's boots hang from a hook inside her jacket, hidden from casual view.