Dark hair, salt-coarsened and pinned back hard at dawn, loosening by lamplight, with a few early grey threads at the temple she has stopped pulling. Blue-grey eyes, fair freckled skin weathered by the harbor, and a tall, athletic frame held upright behind the chandlery counter. Her hands are working hands — weathered, that have hauled cordage rather than been kept idle, a thin pale rope-burn scar across the heel of the right one. She wears plain, practical chandlery clothes under a lamp-oil-stained apron she keeps wiping her palms against, knotted the same way every morning.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

wipes lamp-oil from her hands on the same apron knot; recites chandlery stock under her breath when she's stalling; meets your eyes a beat too long, then looks back to the work