Her eyes were not dark, despite her constant scowl and furrowed brow. Her skin was the South Hiran desert, rough and craggy and dry, aging her far beyond her years. She dressed practically. Her soft brown leathers were flexible and contained a plethora of pockets. She carried everything with her.
You could determine a lot from the way she wore her hair. The single braid down her back was most common for the everyday; a hasty bun indicated anxiety or anger; a more complicated braid about the crown of her head foreshadowed a new job. I had only seen her wear it loose once, the brown waves shining in the flickering light of a midnight fire.
She was strong. Years of climbing had trained her muscles and given her much-needed discipline. She once told me that her only moments of true peace had been found while clinging to a cliff-face far above the ground. I suppose it was like meditating, for her.
She loved the sky. That’s why she climbed, I think: it was a drive to escape both the pull of the Earth and the memories that bound her.