She's a human woman built rather like a short, slender violin (if violins dressed out of charity shop drop-off boxes). Her skin is pale from many days spent in the confines of a ship, contrasting starkly with a mane of hair of a brown so dark, in some lights it looks black. She could be anywhere from her mid twenties to thirties, and it's hard to tell her age just by looking at her-- though her face is unlined, there's a distant, wary, weary expression behind her startlingly green eyes. If one catches her in a sleeveless shirt, it's possible to see the beginnings of a large, complicated tattoo. What looks like a mass of birds coalesces into the branches of a tree, thickening into a gnarled trunk that disappears into the waist of her pants. Tiny, carefully-inked letters creep along the margins of one branch, spelling out a peculiar phrase: "emoriar, quam sit tibi copia nostri" Her clothes, no matter what outfit she's in, look decidedly "well loved." Clean, but worn. Thin, but well-kept. The knees of her pants always sport tiny holes, and the edges of her hems are always softly frayed. Some of her shirts bear the traces of old prints, worn ghostly by many washings and the beating rays of many, many alien suns.
