Incitar

A lean woman in her early thirties stands barely five feet tall, her wiry frame wrapped in scarred, dark leather that bears the soot of countless road fires. Her skin is pallid, almost parchment-like, marked by a jagged, crescent-shaped scar crossing her left cheek where a battle-worn blade once missed. Long, ash‑grey hair is pulled back into a tight braid, strands escaping to frame a face of sharp cheekbones and a thin, aquiline nose: her eyes are cold steel‑blue, constantly scanning the horizon. She wears a battered leather breastplate over a muted charcoal shirt, reinforced gauntlets, and a weather‑worn cloak fastened with a tarnished silver brooch shaped like a broken crown. A scroll case bound to her saddle clatters softly, and a thin silver ring glints on her right index finger, the only hint of ornamentation on her austere attire