Weather-creased tiefling with sun-darkened, ashen-rose skin and a constellation of faint burn-scars along her left forearm. Long, soot-streaked black hair is braided into a single thick rope that swings like a pendulum when she walks. Horns curve back from her temples like the prow of a ship, chipped and filed flat at the tips from years of leaning against railings. Her left eye is a molten amber while her right is a pale, storm-gray with a vertical scar through the iris. She moves with the easy, unhurried grace of someone who trusts the deck beneath her feet, but when she pauses to listen she tilts her head like a predator evaluating an opening. Unexpectedly, her laugh is soft and musical, at odds with a face cut by sea salt and brimstone.