Weathered and graceful like driftwood polished by decades of current. Her skin has the matte sheen of riverstone and the soft creases of age. She walks with a slow, rolling gait learned from balancing on slick rocks, and often leans on a carved oar rather than a cane. Her horns curve back like horns of a carved boar, their ridges nicked by rope and net; one horn bears a tiny brass ring with a faded fishing token tied through it. When she smiles her whole face opens, unexpected and fierce, and when she listens she tilts her head the way a gull tilts to the wind. Contradictory element: despite the deep scars and practical gear she wears a silk scarf dyed in bright, almost flamboyant river-flowers colors that flutters like a banner when she moves.