How would I describe myself? Such a lazy question, do you not have eyes to see me with, nor a tongue to speak what you see? You wish to hear what I see when I see myself? I suppose I have time to humor the odd request. Old Man Markel does not need his delivery of pipeweed for another half hour.

          How awkward this is. I suppose we shall start with my hair; it is the color of my mother’s, she calls it black as coal hiding in the midnight shadows. I learned from her to brush a sweet-smelling oil through it every morning to keep it strong. I much prefer piling it atop my head, than wearing it loose. It is heavy but I have not the patience to spend time braiding its bothersome length every morning. What was that? My eyes? My father’s were the same, and his father’s, and his, and so on. The violet-blue hue is passed down through the men, yet here I am with it as well. Perhaps I was supposed to be born a boy?

          My scars? Now that is a rude question, and one I shan't be answering, thank you very much!