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Allowed to grow in the lengthening peace, her copper locks fall tumbling down to brush her shoulders. Often knotted back out of her face with little regard to style, whisps escape to frame true blue eyes and a nose painted with a smattering of freckles. Tucked safely and hidden in the strands above her left ear is a jeweled butterfly, crafted from lockpicks in shades of the sea.
There is a radiance to her of late, as if beneath her pale skin the life that courses through her veins sings. In moments of delight, two dimples pop out. Of average height, she stands straight in a posture long practiced, while her movements hold both stealth and grace.
More often than not, she smells of blossoms and lemon tarts.
Around her neck, she wears an intricately woven web of spider silk, intertwined in the silver threads are a trio of muted hues - pink, orange, and yellow - that fuse together in an echo of a pastel sunset. A small sliver of amber, a ring of carved of soap, and a pearl dangle trapped within the strands like glamorous prey.
Although her gowns vary they are kept meticulously clean and free of wrinkles. A slit has been cut up the side of each, the hemming done with an expert hand. The alterations are barely noticeable, save in battle.
Upon her back, she wears an overfull pack, stuffed with scrolls, notes, books, and maps.
Upon the third finger of her left hand rest the heavy ring of the Iron Order. A small, well-worn pouch on her belt is home to a butterfly of shell, a dragon of paper, a dark disc of stone, and a rose of soap.
She is a capricious mixture of bubbling laughter and deep-welled solemnity, and when lost in thought or memory, her eyes shade night dark.
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