Faenya moves with the quiet, deliberate poise of someone who has spent decades wandering between groves and libraries. Her presence smells faintly of fallen leaves and clove tea. Fiery copper waves of hair tumble to mid-back in thick ropes that catch light like burnished leaves; a single braid threaded with a small bronze acorn and a scrap of parchment hangs over her left shoulder. Her skin is pale with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, like a scatter of tiny constellations. Her green eyes, flecked with gold, shift in warmth and sharpness with her moods; when curious they glitter at the edges, when melancholic they dim to mossy green. She favors close, efficient steps but will suddenly spin or burst into a graceful, almost dancerly stride when a tune takes her. Autumn leaves—actual motes of spun color—drift around her hem and sleeves, sometimes settling in the crook of her elbow as if listening. Unexpectedly, she carries a pair of simple iron shackles tucked in a belt pouch—worn, pitted, and out of place next to sylvan trinkets.