A wordly weary streak of annoyance flashes in her icey blue eyes, at least until she finds something humorous.

All she typically carries with her is a favored knit baret, a treasured bag of 'tricks' tied with a crocheted band and a worn guitar.  The guitar is battered, perhaps used on a few heads. If looked at closely, there would be a few  lines from a favored poem scratched into the back of it.

 "I don't have to fear it and I want to rock   your gypsy soul,
 Just like way back in the days of old
 And magnificently we will flow into the   mystic.  
"miss ya Q  - death I come for you"'