Lathra appears at a glance like a graceful noblewoman in her late thirties. Her skin bears a subtle, lived-in mottling that reads as sun-swathed bronze up close and, in certain light, reveals a faint pattern like river reeds running along her forearms and neck. Her fingers are long and tapered, each nail finished with an almost jeweled sheen. She moves as if she is always balancing on the edge of tides, a slight swivel to her hips and a slow, deliberate step that leaves no scuff. Unexpected element: when she laughs openly her voice momentarily echoes as if from a distant cavern and a tiny curl of seaweed falls from her hair on occasions when she grows excited or angry.