Everything about this woman seems a little worn, like a knife that's been sharpened over and over, until it's no more than a thin sliver of blade: Her plain blond hair has been roughly hacked off to keep it short and out of the way. Her armor is battered and shiny with use, in places, covered in so many stitches and patches of differently-colored leather that it's hardly the same suit as it started out, having gone through so many reincarnations that the original product is unrecognizable. Her scabbard, the holster of her pistol, the surface of her shield—all display signs of repeated maintenance over a long period.

Even the silver braiding along her sleeves looks tarnished, but it is the tarnish of extended handling rather than of neglect. Only the stripes on her shoulders and the major's pips on her collar seem new, the metal of the pins polished to a mirrorlike sheen that stands out even amidst the dust and smoke of battle, as if reflecting the moon. She carries their weight with unbowed shoulders, though, despite the lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth, and both her stride and her scarred hands are as steady as rock.