Fenna moves like a root that has grown around stones: slow to start, inexorable once she chooses a direction. Her wind-burnt face is mapped with faint silvered lines from many seasons facing the open fields. She keeps one hand habitually on the leather satchel at her hip, as if its weight steadies the rest of her. Her boots are scuffed to raw leather and perpetually dusted with chalky soil; straw often clings to the cuff of her overalls. Unexpectedly, she wears a narrow iron hairpin shaped like a shepherd's hook tucked through a braid — a practical tool that glints like a tiny rune of stubbornness. Up close, her fingers show calluses layered over old scars, and the smell of crushed nettles follows her like a personal weather. She often tilts her head while speaking, listening as if the breeze itself were telling her secrets.