Thin as a draught of mountain air, Silna moves with quick, precise steps like someone who spends her life threading in and out of crowded desks. Her hands are narrow and knuckled, always flicking open a ring of keys on her belt; the keys clink in an odd staccato whenever she is thinking. She wears a waistcoat patched with stamps and a sash of parchment slips, each edge inked with dates. Her pocket is always warm to the touch — she keeps a few coins and a tiny coal ember there in a cloth pouch. Unexpectedly, her left eye has faint clockwork filigree tattooed around it (an old gnomish civic-licensing motif), which gleams when she laughs; that laugh is quick and bright, then vanishes, leaving an expression more used to checking boxes than celebrating. She leaves the impression of a person who knows the rulebook by heart and knows which rules were written to be bent.