The first thing most people notice about Esme-- no family name or patronymic-- is her hair.  The slightest breath of air or smallest movement sends it swirling about her head in purple-black streams, but the moment the air is still it drops into place perfectly, as if trying to pretend that it would never go dancing wildly though the wind.

The hair, when it can be bothered, frames a tan, perpetually-windburned face with watery black eyes, a small nose, and an unsmiling mouth.  The faces rests atop a body perhaps 4' 11" above the ground.  Despite its neat traveling cloak and occasional glimpses of the green jade breastplate beneath, the body below manages to convey the impression of a scraggly bush alone in the desert.

She walks at an angle, leaning towards her staff and circling the edges of any nearby group.  Her chest barely moves.  She does not sweat.  Her steady steps tap out the rhythm of her heart on sand, stone, and straw.  Her voice is deferential, but carrying and insistent.
Apart from her hair, the only abnormal thing about her is the dark, weathered staff she carries-- upon close inspection, it is shot through with dull crimson jade.