[The woman gazes back at him, eyebrows slightly raised. She's quite tall, almost too thin, dressed in ornate robes that look almost archaic in their design, as though she belonged to some bygone era -- and fairly impractical-looking for the cold. Her hair trails down the length of her back, almost to her knees, long and loose.]
[Her eyes are somber, shadow-dark in a too-pale face. They flick from his face to the page he was working on without apology -- as though his surprise is just an inconvenience distracting from the matter at hand, and she is not to be blamed for it whatsoever.]
It is a badgermole.
[And she muses on it a moment, leaning back over him to get a better look.] It is not a poor semblance, though the addition of eyelashes seems . . . arbitrary.
no subject
[Her eyes are somber, shadow-dark in a too-pale face. They flick from his face to the page he was working on without apology -- as though his surprise is just an inconvenience distracting from the matter at hand, and she is not to be blamed for it whatsoever.]
It is a badgermole.
[And she muses on it a moment, leaning back over him to get a better look.] It is not a poor semblance, though the addition of eyelashes seems . . . arbitrary.