A compact woman with a broad, work-shaped back and a habit of standing with one heel lifted, as if ready to step around a puddle that is not there. Her gaze visits exits, hands, and windows before it settles on a face, which can make her seem suspicious even when she is simply counting the room. Coarse dark curls are usually pinned beneath a square of faded cloth, with loose strands catching lint from her work. Her sleeves smell faintly of soap, steam, and wool grease. Unexpectedly for a hard-pressed mender, she keeps a tiny paper fan tucked in her collar and unfolds it with theatrical care whenever someone says something foolish.

She is generous with labor but wary of gifts, brisk in a crisis but unexpectedly playful when the work is done. She dislikes being pitied and will offer a practical solution even when what she wants is comfort. In a crowd she is watchful and economical with words; with children or trusted neighbors she becomes chatty, irreverent, and willing to tell stories that make herself look ridiculous.

She grew up sharing a narrow room with her brother Iago above a dye yard, learning to mend clothes because a repaired coat lasted longer than a complaint. When a winter fever took their mother, Iago left home to earn money and promised to return before the thaw. He did return, but by then she had learned to keep the household running without waiting for promises. Years later, a kiln accident injured her shoulder and ended her chance of taking regular heavy-work shifts. She now repairs garments at a stall near the flood steps and takes small jobs from neighbors. Every week, someone leaves money or useful supplies where she will find them. She assumes it is a rotating act of neighborhood kindness and has no idea Dren is the source. She is currently trying to keep the stall from being taken over by a landlord who claims her rent is overdue, though she suspects the tally is false.