A half-orc woman, easily mistaken for one of the caravan guards, walked alongside the caravan. The most obvious detail was her pronounced limp, as if her left leg had been injured somehow. She didn't wear shoes. Instead, there were dirt-caked bandages from her ankles, up to cover the bottom hems of her pants, cause them to balloon outward slightly (a trick often used in areas where ticks were frequent, to keep them from crawling up your pant legs). Her clothes were simple, unadorned and very dirty. There was a leather string around her neck, disappearing into the neck of her shirt. It's weight hinted at some trinket she had hidden there. Those within the caravan of any means mostly avoided her shadow, for she smelled as if she had spent a long day digging under the hot sun; the smell of soil and sweat.
She had chosen to wear her leather armor over her shirt, and it made her look a tiny bit more presentable. It was not covered in dirt (not that it was clean), though it did have a couple small blood splatters. A mace hung from a leather belt frog at her right hip, and a shield was strapped to her left arm. But she seemed more lanky than the average caravan guard, her limbs long, but lean.
Her things were on one of the wagons. A typical adventurer's pack, from the looks of it, except for the well-used shovel tied to it.
Taller, even, than some of the humans in the caravan (5'9"), her eyes kept watch, first forward, then behind. Watchful for bandits, she felt less ready for this trip than she'd like, though her gaze wouldn't betray it. In truth, it wasn't the call of adventure that brought her to the Saltmarsh. It was the need for a gravedigger. Her last job had her sleeping in a mausoleum, and she hoped to upgrade to a shack, at least, with... dare she think it? A bed!
She had chosen to wear her leather armor over her shirt, and it made her look a tiny bit more presentable. It was not covered in dirt (not that it was clean), though it did have a couple small blood splatters. A mace hung from a leather belt frog at her right hip, and a shield was strapped to her left arm. But she seemed more lanky than the average caravan guard, her limbs long, but lean.
Her things were on one of the wagons. A typical adventurer's pack, from the looks of it, except for the well-used shovel tied to it.
Taller, even, than some of the humans in the caravan (5'9"), her eyes kept watch, first forward, then behind. Watchful for bandits, she felt less ready for this trip than she'd like, though her gaze wouldn't betray it. In truth, it wasn't the call of adventure that brought her to the Saltmarsh. It was the need for a gravedigger. Her last job had her sleeping in a mausoleum, and she hoped to upgrade to a shack, at least, with... dare she think it? A bed!
