She's young, maybe a few years past twenty, according to the aging standards of Bree-land folk. The old families of Trestlebridge and its eastern farms are a different breed of Man than their southern cousins, but they are more like than than their neighbors—the grim men who live in the shadows between mountains. Her kind age hard, though, and her youth hints at a more privileged life than the other common-folk of the town.

She’s scrawny compared to her kinfolk—hound-breakers, butchers, and herdsmen—but she comes from rough stock. The muscles won in youth by hard farm-labor have not weakened despite the recent lean years and a withdrawal from a life of labor. Rumors of ancient, Black Numenorean blood in the region will never be confirmed, even by those descended from the kings who rest in sunken tombs, but her family boasts height nearly as tall the Rangers, and she is no exception. 

Her hooded eyes are alert with the color of a frozen lake, the cold sun gleaming as it bounces off hard, smoky crystal. Her dark, angled brows are furrowed or raised, drawing lines of fretful thought across her smooth skin. Her nose is long, noble, and aquiline, and her thin lips often resist the natural upturn of their corners in favor of a frown. 

She wears the most basic of clothes, not even a leather vest, and her knife is a butcher's sort—made for skinning and carving, not sword-play. Her boots are the only leather on her, cracked and discolored at the toes and heels, the ankles wrinkled. Trinkets, charms, and other woven spells are her only adornment. The bone, bead, and pewter gifts from the Hillmen of Nan Amlug East are woven around her wrists, throat, and clothing by faded, dirtied ribbons of wool. Her hair is a mess of neglected braids and twine.

Her voice is bright and quick, in joy or in anguish, and the pace of her heartbeat can be heard in every breath.