Though it seems her goggled face is only a few years older than your own, behind her breather mask and bandana, an unfamiliar sense of surety yet radiates from this woman: Subtle indications—instinctually understood—that this is a person who has seen much, done much, probably survived much. She has come through the dust, and the dust has not beaten her; she does not wear the misery of it like those who live in your hometown; she carries something else.

The weird implements hanging from her broad belt—weapons, perchance, or survival tools? There is no telling, for much about the woman is alien even against the thin context of the merchants who sometimes find their way to town. She looks as much soldier as survivalist, but her edges are a little less ragged than your local druid's, her fabrics a little newer and of less rustic material, made from strange textures in colors not native to the dust.