Greta Stonebinder is a compact, broad-shouldered dwarf woman with the dense, steady posture of someone who has spent a lifetime bracing wagon wheels and arguing with weather. Her braided black hair is threaded with copper wire and tied at the ends with tiny wooden grain scoops. Her beard is short by dwarven tradition but carefully combed into two square tufts beneath her jaw. One thumb is a polished brass prosthetic, jointed like a miniature gauntlet and engraved with tally marks from contracts she has honored. A faded measuring cord hangs around her neck, its knots darkened by sweat and flour dust. She walks with a rolling caravan stride, never quite stopping even when standing still. Her clothing smells of barley, lamp oil, and rain-soaked wool. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: powerful enough to split a crate plank, yet she handles injured birds and frightened children with extraordinary delicacy.