Short and compact, Thura moves like a coiled spring: deliberate, quick, and never wasteful of motion. Her hair is braided into a single black plait threaded with leather ties and a few talon-shaped iron beads — trophies from mounts she's raised. Scars lace her forearms and ribs in silvery, raised lines; a jagged crescent mark across her left brow is crimson where an old strike never quite healed flat. Her hands are callused and oil-dark, always smelling faintly of leather and pine resin. She wears a battered helm strapped at her hip, though she prefers hooded cloaks; the hood's inner lining is embroidered with tiny silhouettes of beasts she has bred. Contradiction: despite the hard, utilitarian tack she favors, Thura insists on a single silk sash, faded sea-green, knotted at her waist — a soft, almost tender remnant of a person she refuses to let be forgotten.