A weathered woman in her late forties, Zara carries herself like a mast that has survived too many hurricanes. Sun-darkened skin creases around piercing blue eyes, while salt-white hair hangs in four tight braids bound with copper rings and faded blue thread. Her tricorn hat sits low over one brow, its blue feather battered into a crooked hook by years of rain. She moves with a rolling, economical stride even on solid ground, one hand often hovering near a cutlass hilt as if the deck might suddenly pitch. Her face is scarred across the left cheek by a boarding hook, yet her hands are unexpectedly delicate, with neatly trimmed nails and a habit of carefully mending torn sailcloth herself. She leaves behind the impressions of brine, lamp oil, and crushed juniper.