Short, spring-legged, and perpetually sun-creased. She moves with a dancer's grace and the steady, deliberate economy of someone who has crossed a thousand ridgelines. Her skin is freckled like toasted oats. A wide-brimmed, patched green cloak always hangs from her shoulders, its inside lined with hidden pockets and pressed ferns. Her hair is cropped close at the sides and left long in a braided topknot that smells faintly of cedar oil and smoke. She wears mismatched leather gloves; the left has a series of small stitched symbols, the right is reinforced with boiled leather. When she pauses she often examines a tiny carved wooden bird on a cord around her neck, turning it in the light as if listening for a sound only she can hear. Unexpected element: when she is still, the hem of her cloak emits a soft, irregular tinkling like many small bells, though the bells are actually tiny polished river stones threaded on gut and hidden in the seam.