Orin is a stout and formidable figure, standing like a rooted oak. Her matted black hair is thick and greasy, often braided with iron rings that clink when she moves. Her eyes are a startling, crystalline blue that pierce through the grime on her face. She has a notably round, bulbous nose that has been broken at least twice, giving it a slightly crooked tilt. She wears soot-stained chain mail that has been meticulously patched with links of different metals. Surprisingly, she always smells faintly of dried lavender, a sharp contrast to her rugged and mud-caked exterior. She moves with a heavy, deliberate gait, as if every step is an anchor being dropped into the earth.