Tashia was wealthy, once.  Oh, very little of it could be used for anything, all tied up in land and art and no small collection of precious gems, many suited for wearing about her person.  That's all in the past, though.  The woman who is now has none of those anchors weighing her down.  Tashia, now, has ribs you can feel without pressure and feet thickly leathered.  She wears rough jute and ramie, and sandals of twisted reeds.  Her hair is short, manageable, unadorned, and it would take a sharp eye to still spot the marks from heavy jewelry worn every long-ago day.

  Tashia, herself, is weathered now, and it shows in more than her wardrobe and skin.  Her voice doesn't carry excitement well or hope at all, no matter the effort she puts in.  Her hands, covered in dozens of small scars, move with a slowness born of worry, not arthritis, though several joints have become noticeably thicker.  It doesn't show in her face.  Only a victim looks frightened.