Over many years, the drow have developped in a strangely inverse way to the people of the surface - their women being the taller and more physically imposing of the two sexes - and this drow is no exception. She is comparably as tall as the average human, standing around 5'7'', possessed of traits that mark her as a member of a martial profession. The youth of the elves makes her age impossible to determine.

And yet, a mere glance at her speaks of a long and tumultuous existence. The timelessness inherited by blood has been cleaned away, worn away like water slowly carving a path through stone and nowhere is it more visible than on her bare skin. Even at a glance her hands seem rough and sinewy, like they've climbed mountains and stoked fires of forges the world over.  

Her voice, a husky drawl most of the time and a self-ironic purr at others seems at odds with a face that - were it not for so cattishly lazy an expression - might seem deceptively youthful. Yet much like the rumble of a cat, there is rarely a time when she sounds anything beyond content, despite any sharpness to her words, be they directed at herself or others.

Her eyes, no doubt, speak most quietly of all. These half-lidded violet pools gaze upon the world with a comfortable sense of familiarity, as though certain that the world held no new and bedazzling sights for them. Though at times they seem lost - gazing into the roiling waves of an age's worth of memories from which they perchance risk never to surface from.

It is immediately clear that this drow doesn't advertise herself to the world as the typical - there are no spider fetishes or idols worked into her garb, and she watches the world with a calm ambivalence, her face, essentially, an unreadable mask.