Sonja Faulkner
Hands first. Before a name, before a face, Sonja looks at what someone does with their hands, and she has not been wrong yet about what that tells her. Then she decides how close she is willing to stand. Her place at the temple is one of devotion and continuance, a calling she carries with a seriousness that startles anyone who only noticed the coin belt and the freckles. She rides at dawn while the sand is still cool, and she speaks about desire the way other people speak about weather: openly, without flinching, as something that simply exists. Talking to her feels like being read in a single glance and welcomed anyway.
