Description: Starless night falls in a thick, perfectly straight curtain around a fine-featured face of golden-brown sea glass. A delicate nose, small jaw, rounded cheekbones, large, striking eyes framed in lashes of stygian; it is as if nature has contrived to round and wear away all the sharp corners and edges of the human face.
These mismatched eyes--one the color of the darkest summertime leaves, the other a smoky, glinting silver--are the young woman's single most remarkable feature, other than, perhaps, the lack of interestingness to the rest of her form. She is short in stature, narrow-shouldered yet athletic, lithe but not powerful, neither pretty nor unattractive, and meek of presence. Buried beneath the model servant, however, is the broken soul of something altogether more savage and free: she is athletic in the sinewy manor of a runner rather than a laborer, and those callouses which adorn her long-fingered hands like noble jewelry are more than tame burns earned in a kitchen.
Samithel moves and does not move with the unobtrusive grace of one who hunts in solitude. There is as much to be heard in her light-footed tread as there is to be read in the enduring placidity of her expression or the silent calm coiled in the cast of her eyes and the set of her limbs.

Personality: The answer to that question is fear. While Samithel feels a sinner amidst the crush of humanity that is Arx, it is the shadows beneath the trees that terrify her the most, even as she finds solace in a mattress of leaves and a blanket of stars. Loneliness and loss have become the enemies she knows best.
Beneath the mask of polite composure, the woman is a creature of curiosity and social ties. She enjoys learning, primarily through active engagement--speaking or observing. She enjoys the company of others, but struggles to express it effectively; nearly all of Samithel's life has been spent in a closely knit pack or alone in the forests of Arvum. This quest for belonging and acceptance into a greater whole is further muddled by the chaos that seems to follow in her heels. What will be the price for the next stroke of bad luck?
Samithel's sense of humor is perhaps the only thing sparser than her words. She tends towards the pragmatic in most things. Mistakes in particular she takes an uncompromising view of, both in herself and others. The Price of failure could very well be her life, and that is unacceptable; not until she can face the wilderness once more and earn the right to atone for her blasphemy.

Background: Samithel's first cradle came to be a moonless winter night, tempered by the warmth of her weary mother's arms. The next took shape in the density of dense branches and snow above them, as the tribe continued their nomadic pattern through the snow-burdened forests along northern Crownland territories--not that any of them particularly cared which of the Compact's regions they wandered that season. Let those city-bound continue their slavery to their own laws and regulations; such a trade of primal freedom for shackles of stone and metal was one incomprehensible to Samithel's people.
This was the child's upbringing. Through her mother she learned the words and stories of the world--the spoken ones and the secret ones. She took up the bow and tracked alongside the hunters of the tribe. She spent time with the green-men, learning to read the canopies and undergrowth's around them. It was with a native ease that the child, reserved even at that age, found her place in the generations-long communal rhythm for nearly fifteen years.
What exactly happened to that old group of taciturn Abandoned, then, is a mystery. It is certainly not one the child-almost-woman, drenched as if by Mangata's own wrath, shivering from the evening chill, and feral-eyed, ever recounted to her unlikely saviors at the servant's entrance to the Keaton Keep that fateful autumnal night. Nor did she speak of it to them after she began working as an undocumented servant under the noses of the nobles living there. In fact, rarely did she speak at all, and for the first few days of her stay at the bustling compound, the girl's mannerisms were more animal than human.
With acclamation came a burgeoning understanding of her illegal self-imposed duties. She learned through observation as much as through hastily whispered lessons, and whatever reservations her fellow servants had about Samithel's origins were slowly eroded by the bonds of station and comradery. AN extra pair of hands were never amiss in that busy keep; not only did the nobles need attending, but so did their war-hounds. In this way two and some years trickled through Samithel's fingers like sand, the constant fear of being discovered and executed as an outsider gradually fading into a fine layer of apathy smeared across her heart as everyone became accustomed to her unobtrusive presence at the Keaton stronghold.
Then a catastrophe swept away her home for the second time. Summer unfurled across the keep like the yoke of a cracked egg on heated metal, and with its turning, a small trip to the grand city of Arx, Jewel of the Compact, was announced. The officer in charge took several soldiers, some servants, and some of the dogs along. They would have all died, if not for the latter addition; instead, the group scattered when the raiders descended upon them. They were clearly experienced, striking during a noonday lull, between an eagerness for a meal and the promise of a brief rest that teased away the vigilance of all but the most seasoned of warriors.
The great city of Arx unraveled before her, and the rest of the journey there was one that blurred in the pages of her memory. Never in her most reflective nightmares did Samithel imagine she might step foot on such an offense against the spirit of her people. Yet she had already tread worked stone, held the trappings of the Compact in her hands, poured its blood in glass cups for its victims to guzzle, and forced lies about the untruths of the world into mind-spaces she could not readily forget, all to remain alive. She could bare the hungry edge of yet another chisel, surely. And there it sprawled with the confidence of a victorious predator, in all its artificially lit, smoke-shrouded, urban thunder. The only question that remained was--why?