Ketevan Gogiashvili
Fighter
Ketevan Gogiashvili
Species
Human
Appearance
A slim, athletic young woman with light olive skin warmed by years of sun and woodsmoke. Her soft cheeks and narrow chin give her a gentle, almost domestic impression until she turns toward danger. Her hazel-green eyes are flecked with amber and remain fixed on exits, hands, and hinges rather than faces. Thick black-brown hair falls to her jaw in an uneven cut, with damp wisps curling around her ears even in dry weather. She leans slightly forward when standing, left shoulder angled toward the nearest doorway, as if the room has already begun to collapse. Her bare arms are wiry and muscled from bicep to wrist. The contradiction is in her hands: broad-knuckled and callused like a mason's, they move with startling delicacy when mending cloth or handling a frightened child. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice that she breathes through her nose in quiet measured counts, but when rattled she begins counting aloud in Georgian under her breath.
“Low, warm, and careful, with a subtle Caucasian cadence. Her words become clipped when she is angry, and when she is frightened she counts backward in Georgian beneath her breath.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
Her voice is warm and low, but every sentence ends with a slight upward breath, as if she is leaving room for someone else to disagree.
A brass thimble is always worn on a cord around her neck. Its rim is deeply worn on one side from being rubbed during anxious moments.
Her chain shirt makes a faint, irregular whisper because three links near her left ribs were repaired with brass wire.
She wears a red sash that belonged to a missing courier and refuses to explain why the knot is always tied with the same four loops.
When startled, she counts backward from seven in Georgian before drawing her sword.
Voice
“A mellow contralto with a faint rasp, like cloth dragged over unfinished wood. She speaks softly enough that listeners lean toward her, then projects with startling force when giving evacuation orders.”
Clothing
A steel-gray chain shirt lies beneath a mended charcoal half-cloak that wraps around both shoulders. The cloak is patched with squares of faded blue and cream wool, and its brass clasp has been polished smooth by constant handling. A muted red sash circles her waist, holding a whetstone, a small repair kit, and a leather sheath for letters. Her boots are soft-soled for quiet movement and stained pale at the toes from village dust.
Body Language
Ketevan keeps one shoulder angled toward an exit and rarely stands with both feet parallel. She tilts her head when listening, as though testing the weight of each word. Her left hand often rests near the pommel of her sheathed sword, not gripping it, while her right hand remains open and ready to help. When frightened, her breathing becomes shallow and audible, and she counts softly beneath her breath.
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