Her arms are crossed over the back of the chair. Casually. Right hand holding left wrist. No watch, no jewelry. Just two thick black ponytail holders, the kind with no metal so they don't snag, on her right wrist. Her fingernails are short and unpainted. There's one scar on her right hand, between the thumb and the index finger; if you look closer, you see a few on her bare arms as well. She's no stranger to fighting.
She's wearing a white tank-top, what's colloquially known as a wifebeater. She always wears tank tops. She wants to leave her arms free to do stuff. Fighting, sometimes, yeah, but also just stuff in general. She feels constrained by sleeves. They limit movement.
She'll be very pissed off if you tell her she's cute, so suppress the urge to do so. Pretty girl. Set mouth, lower lip slightly bigger than the upper. Suspicious look in her eyes, which are large, long-lashed, colorshifting bluegreygreen. Delicate features, though she'd rather they were strong. She doesn't wear makeup. She doesn't own makeup. She doesn't need it. Her hair cascades loose right now - a rare indulgence. Before she goes anywhere, does anything, she'll tie it back. But for now, it tumbles dark-gold over her shoulders and a bit down her arms, the edges of her curls brushing light-honey skin, catching the light with a glitter - gilt, honey, caramel, coffee with cream.
She flexes her left hand and glares. "What're you looking at?"