A knight in a suit of armor, rarely if ever seen out of it. Torquemada's suit is old and grisly with scorch marks and tattered cloth. Whatever standards or banners were on display are now ruined beyond recognition, caked in a layer of ash and from the cracks in the armor a ghostly, blue fire smolders underneath.
She carries on her hip a warhammer about as old as the rest of her equipment and just about poorly maintained. Torquemada seems long overdue for either maintenance or an entirely new set of equipment but carries on either out of sentimental value or some inexplicably stubborn tenacity.
Ollena's voice rang out with a tin-like echo and metal rattling betrayed her presence long before the smell of a funeral pyre did. She rolls her R's and talks with the speed of a saleswoman but has the stiff gait and uncompromising posture of a soldier. Torquemada's body language operated under an economy of motion, and that economy was currently undergoing a recession.