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Equally, Tris gives nothing to her crew about her youngest years or true port of origin. She doesn't feel she owes any of them anything but her share. She's never drunk, for whatever reason she gives at the time. So there is little doubt she lies to everyone about what she does mention of herself- supposedly or allegedly. Where she will start her story is Port Defiance. She was promised a new life and got abandoned. That place was no paradise, and she had no picnic. When word that her old Captain legitimized and left it to the winds to inform her, she wanted her accounts settled. Arriving in Arx, she followed his trail and made her demands. In some turn of events, she joined the Pravus Navy and quickly climbed the ranks to become a First Mate under that damned Admiral.

Tris seems possessed by an air of dangerous action and turbulent emotion within her slender, pale silhouette. Her relaxed posture deceptively hides uneasy tension, as if seeking a target to pounce and attack in feral reflex. Her hair falls over her shoulders- sleek, straight, and stygian black. Lustrous all the same, her hair hardly moves within a breeze, by styling or a by-product of her intense aura. Oblique eyes stare back with a piercing intensity, calling attention to the bright oceanic eyes. Her gaze looks fixated and narrow, when you manage to catch it for more than the moment she might waste. The color of her lips is a mix of chilled raspberry hues. Despite her layers of clothing to hide her buxom chest, the scars of seafaring rake across pale skin in bare discoloration. The curves and contours of lithe muscle smooth speak of her fitness, and she lacks the gaunt appearance of a tar confined to rations. Still, there is something strangely idyllic about the balance of raw beauty and strength that is evident in her cagey sort of grace; be it reserved to a glare or demonstrated in a bought of violent fury. She appears as the sea made her.

There is little to understand about the dark-haired sailor who has become Tris. Though she might be occasionally expressive, it is usually in sour notes and muttered complaints. She seems a very guarded and untrusting sort by her looks, and her grumpy demeanor doesn't seem to dissuade that opinion. She shifts between arrogance and impatience to silent and observant in a tide more chaotic than the moon prescribes. Whatever she protects, a piece of who she once was or secret she'll die for, it is always on her mind. Her hand, likewise, always on a weapon or prepared to be one.