Billie Byrd

Whether it's the open plains, or the open seas, it's clear a cage wasn't meant to be her home. Suntanned, roughhanded, and uneasy in a seat, plush cowboy cast a strict profile, albeit one almost always in motion. Asymmetrical vest did best to streamline physique, though ample lovehandles and a generous enough chest resisted, developing an insistence for several belt buckles down along right obliques. Draping from the left down to cover powerful thighs cultivated by powerful tides bucking and bending in the stern hands of a ship's deck was an ornately folded great-kilt that spoke of mother tongue culture.

Something not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, like migration.

Tartan refused to stand out, a majority in a jade-like black, bolstered by roiling amethyst and limned, at it's thinnest points, in Silver. Below this, equally brutal calves were tucked and dressed in boots, wrapped and polished in half-chaps just below her knee.

When allowed, outside of the pens, A pale white bolero is worn, a not-so-subtle bladed brim flickering dangerously in characteristic tilts and when politely removed. Without, pinkened eartips punch powerfully through locks of wheat, sheaved short, kept out of the way of pale blues.

Beyond this, the only outstanding characteristic are two, odd looking rings worn on her hands, capturing both index and middle finger around the intermediate phalanges. When looking down the length of her digits, one can see clearly through what seems to be a keyhole.