A slim young woman with well-muscled arms and a soft-cheeked, almost cherubic face. Her warm olive skin is dusted with golden freckles across the bridge of her nose and the tops of her shoulders. Deep-hazel eyes, flecked with amber, watch every doorway with fierce patience. Her jaw-length dark brown hair is cut unevenly, as though she trims it herself with a camp knife. She stands fully upright but waits with her weight pitched subtly toward the nearest exit, one heel barely touching the floor. Her movements are quiet, economical, and strangely graceful for someone dressed for a fight. She smells faintly of beeswax, wool, and crushed fennel, a scent she does not seem to notice. The unexpected contradiction is her face: gentle and open at first glance, while her stillness gives the impression of a drawn bowstring.