Maevara is a tall, narrow woman whose movements are slow without ever seeming hesitant. Her olive-brown skin has been roughened by years of caravan dust, bitter wind, and the fine green powder used in cult rituals, leaving her knuckles dry and faintly stained at the creases. Her dark auburn hair is braided into seven thin ropes, each threaded with a different dull metal bead. She has heavy-lidded hazel eyes that seem warm until she stops blinking. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice that she repeatedly presses two fingers beneath her sternum, as if checking whether something is moving there. She dresses like a wealthy traveler, but her boots are patched, her cuffs are frayed, and her hands smell faintly of vinegar and crushed mint. The unexpected contradiction is her smile: when she is being kind, it looks practiced and predatory, while her rare moments of genuine amusement make her appear almost shy.