Brakka moves like a river: slow, inexorable, and capable of sudden surges. She stands with the hulking, rounded shoulders of ogre stock softened by years of human habits; her walk is a steady, practiced stomp that leaves faint mud prints patterned like fish scales. Her skin is dusky river-silt brown with pale scars that look like braided rope marks from old hauling rigs. Her hands are enormous, callused pads with unexpectedly nimble fingertips that braid rope and tie intricate knots. She wears a battered wide-brimmed cap wired with small brass tags — tokens of barges she's saved or contracts finished. Contradiction: despite a brutish face and protruding lower canines, her fingers are ringed with tiny carved wooden beads and she hums lullabies in a near-whisper when repairing nets.