The gods did not see fit to send her into the afterlife with a gun. Or in fact, anything but the clothes on her back. It's a military uniform - brown, an impeccably tailored coat and pants, complete with gloves that mean the only visible skin is her face. On a seventeen-year-old kid with bright lilac eyes, it might look a bit odd. It doesn't help that she's strapped a metal pipe to her belt in place of a weapon. It hangs there from her hip like a child's idea of an ancient warrior's sword.

Her partner - when she finds him - says something to her, but there's a moment where her gaze flickers down to his bare hands instead, just visible with his arms crossed. Just a moment-- then she looks up with the slightest physical jerk, like she's noticed his flies are undone and she's too embarrassed to mention it. Only then does what he says catch up to her.

"If we have time, we can braid each other's hair later on." The thing about having such a posh accent is that a lot of what she says, including this, sounds utterly serious. She smiles, though, a moment after, and it makes her look all the younger.

(Her hair is as short as his, for the record.)

"Tisarwat," she goes on, with a very short bow. "And you are...?"