Fairer haired than one might expect of an elf. Abelia Orifir is otherwise possessed of all the other hallmarks of her seafaring kinfolk from the graceful, angularity of her face to the svelte and agile nature of her build. If there were nothing more to her than those gifts of her ancestry, she might be utterly unremarkable. There is an air, if nothing else, to her that sets her apart from the rest of her kin beyond just her stubborn planting of her feet upon the lands of Ptolus.

That quality, that property of hers, sticks in the mind as an almost cheerful but quiet resignation. An acceptance of something inevitable that seems only apparent to her and those like her. The answer becomes a little clearer in how she presents herself with much of her garb seeming spun from simple, enduring things that one might make from plant and animal with a little know-how. Each piece absent of metal or the products of any textile mill. Pinned with a rose thorn at what would be the clasp of any other cloak is a little button of emerald worked into a smooth and flat circle. At her right hip is a broad satchel, it's leather straps groaning beneath the burden of what appear to be stone tablets. What glimpses someone might get of them showing a script that seems to hold common blood with many of the elder languages but owes no true lineage to any of them.

Beyond this, her possessions seem otherwise meager yet in impeccable condition from the scimitar that rests at her left hip to the wooden shield that dangles from a strap on her backpack until such a time as it's needed. The scent of flowers and aged wood masking a more lingering note of animal and stable despite a clear attention to hygiene.