Something is not entirely stable in the noxious, amber storms that compose the strange hunter's eyes. The arrogance of elves is unmistakable in her disposition although chaos is prone to decorate the petals of a knowing smile that is neither fey nor born of their blithe peace. Whatever garnered wisdom hinted under hushed tones about the woman seem neither contrary nor befitting her nature.

Standing a few inches over five feet, her appearance caters to the sun elven persuasion: slender and feminine. When her veil is lifted, streams of blond spill down to her waist decorated with wooden beads, crisp, dried petals in pink and the occasional braid bound by bits of twine and leather. The lithe girl's skin betrays the true gold of her kin as it is pale and alabaster; shining faintly in its wintery smoothness.