Warm olive skin burned darker across the nose and the backs of the hands by twenty years of pan-glare, and black hair cropped short and blunt because anything longer is a liability out on the flats. Tall, flatly muscular, broad through the shoulders — the build of someone who has spent her life walking beside animals rather than riding them. Dark brown eyes set deep under a permanent squint, and a face that gives away nothing it has not decided to give. A caravan-mistress's brass tally-ring hangs on a thong at her throat, a salt-rime line marks every seam of her coat, and her left forearm carries the long pale burn of a lamp that went over in a wind. She speaks rarely and finally, and she is the only person on the road who knows what is left in the barrels.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

turns the brass tally-ring at her throat while she decides; checks the barrel seals twice knowing they are fine; sits with her back to the fire so she can watch the dark; answers a question a full three seconds after it is asked