Arishaelle Domorwen was one of those people whom you remembered after an encounter, perhaps more so than was wise for her trade of hired assassin. She was not a tall young woman, but she carried herself with a pride bearing on pompousness that said she was not to be trifled with- and anyone who knew her also knew that she could slip a knife between ribs without batting an eye, and would, with enough provocation.

Her hair was her most cosseted feature. No man in his right mind could call her generously endowed with curves, and her face, with its challenging green eyes, was too sharply angular to be called beautiful, but her hair... It was her pride and joy. A deep cinnamon tinted with dark red, it played down to midway between her determinedly set shoulders and her hips, curling in loose, unruly waves all the way. She had taken a small bunch from just above each ear and tied them at the back of her head with a blue ribbon. Not a fancy ribbon, just one that would keep her hair from her eyes during a job.

This was not the way her hair would have looked of its own accord. Back when she had lived in the great seaside city of Piraena, it had been long, black, and utterly straight, moreso than the slender dagger she carried at her waist. But since she had come to Arcanth, she had been regularly purchasing a strange powder from the wise woman who eked out a meager living in one of the darker alleyways of the city. This luxury that she allowed herself gave her hair its luscious red color, along with forcing its straight strands into the waves she fancied more. As long as she rubbed the powder in after washing her hair at the river each week and let it dry in the sun, no one ever need know it looked differently.

Most of the time, she wore the outfit given to her by the assassins' guild. It was mostly black: black leather boots; black, close-fitting pants; and the black, doublet-like shirt. Hardly long enough to do more than flare over her hips, it was held tightly at her waist by a soft belt. The upper sleeves, made with enough cloth as to make a weaver weep at the mere thought of creating it, were slitted to reveal blue silk underneath; they tightened along her forearms and lent the garb somewhat of a dashing effect. But no matter if she wore her guild clothes or not, she always sported a red woolen cloak that was her special favorite. Rain, shine, snow, or melting heat, it invariably hung about her shoulders as she went about her daily business.

Memorable indeed.

~~~~~~~ All right, now that I've gotten enough complaints about it. I think I should explain something now that you've read the story and are probably wondering why she's so flamboyant if she's an assassin. In that city, the two well-established assassin guilds are not secret organizations at all. Most people can point out to you on the street who's an assassin. They don't care. It's practically a legal trade there- you can persecute an assassin for killing your kin but only if you can find out who the assassin was. That's hard. So that's why she's like that. Don't complain.