A slim, athletic young woman with light olive skin warmed by years of wind and lamplight. Her cheeks are soft, her chin narrow, and her hazel-green eyes carry small amber flecks that seem brighter when she is suspicious. Thick black-brown hair falls to her jaw in an uneven cut, with damp wisps curling around her ears and nape. She leans forward slightly even when standing still, left shoulder angled toward the nearest exit as if every room has already become a possible ambush. Her arms are muscled from the biceps down, with the compact strength of someone accustomed to hauling shutters, packs, and frightened people. She smells faintly of wet wool, beeswax, and crushed juniper, a scent she insists is merely the village. The unexpected contradiction is her smile, which is tender and almost shy, despite the alertness of a drawn bowstring in the rest of her body. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice that her eyes rarely settle on faces. They travel to hands, thresholds, windows, and the empty spaces behind furniture.