She's as spit and polish as she can get; is it her fault that the result is something of a disaster? Unrelentingly dark hair has been trimmed, and while it's nicely slicked back now, when it dries, the uneven ends will begin to pop out in random directions. She isn't very tall, and she's quite thin, the sort of thin that means too little food for too many years, which results in a wirey strength that's reflected in a stubbornly set jaw. If she wasn't so hell-bent on looking mean, she might be pretty: high cheekbones slope to a pointed chin, and her eyes are large and dark, with long lashes. She wears a headband knotted around her head, to better keep her hair in place, and her blouse used to be of good quality, and belonged to someone bigger than she is. It's tied rakishly at the waist with a long scarf, and daggers hang at either hip. Trous end mid-calf, and her feet are bare, if, for the moment, clean.
Her creamy hair is rucked up in a thick marestail that hangs to her rump, bright as sunshine against the nut-brown of her skin. Unruly tendrils constantly stray into her face, strong calloused fingers brushing them away from huge grass-green eyes, tiny nose, and red-painted lips. She's at the point in life where clothes are always too short at the ankles and too tight at the bust; the black-embroidered linen shirt and cross-laced green woolen trousers she's wearing are no exception, though an end of her white-green-and-brown plaid mantle is pulled modestly across her chest.
Carrying: