Though visibly edging out of middle-aged, this woman has an unmistakably regal posture, back and shoulders straight with pride that does not seem to quite cross over into hauteur. Her salt-and-pepper hair is swept into a businesslike bun, drawing even greater attention to the white streak flowing back from her brow. Below, her face is careworn in the manner of an empathetic schoolteacher, with dark, expressive eyes from whose corners radiate a network of fine lines. The pattern matches her mouth, which seems designed to crinkle slightly when she talks, always giving the impression that—circumstances permitting—she would prefer to smile, as the habit has obviously engraved its mark indelibly upon her.

While her years hang about her like a cloak, it is a satin one, smooth and breathable. Her hands bear only one or two visible hallmarks of age, no contest against the callouses of swordplay that decorate her long, dexterous fingers. She carries her musket so that imagining her using it comes easily, and the basket hilt of her blade—slenderer than the standard-issue Federation longsword—is stained dark from ingrained handling.