Nerida cuts an agile, unassuming figure, moving with the careful balance of someone who has spent half her life on slick iron catwalks. Her pale dust-blue stone skin has a fine, porous texture like weathered river rock, darkened by permanent moisture around her wrists, throat, and ankles. Sharp intelligent eyes track every drain, shadow, and pressure gauge in a room. Her dark hair is pulled tightly beneath a battered maintenance cap, though a single silver-white lock continually escapes and sticks to her cheek. She wears a salt-stained filtration jumpsuit that creaks softly when dry, reinforced knee-pads, and heavy rubber wading boots that make her seem slower than she is. The contradictory impression is striking: her body looks carved from dry stone, yet she always seems damp, cool, and faintly surrounded by the scent of rain on dust. In motion, she is quick and economical, never wasting a step, but grief has given her stillness a startling weight.