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All too common, Leta's family just barely a step above the rabble of the slums, and clung to that hint of respectability even when coin was all too scarce. She'd had a few surviving siblings, all older than her, and all seemed destined for a dreary life of menial labor, aspiring to some lesser craft at best. Her mother worked in a tavern, and the time Leta spent there and the colorful folk who'd come by instilled in her an admiration for the loud and bold warriors and adventurers who'd return from the field with pouches full of coin to spend. She learned the rudiments of swordplay from some of the regulars, and one day she was off to join a mercenary company. It wasn't easy to talk them into taking her on, and it wasn't easy to earn her place, but over the last few years she's proven herself, if largely against bandits and in minor disputes between lesser nobles.

Leta is all light-hearted smirks and boyish charm from her artfully tousled mop of short blond hair on down. Blue eyes, pretty features, hardly spoiled by the stark scar that cuts across her rosy right cheek. Why, the cut just makes her look more dashing, at worst . She is not particularly tall, scant inches on the average woman, shorter than the average soldier. She is, however, very solidly built, with broad shoulders and limbs full of strength born of combat and vanity, but it's the chest-puffing swagger that ensures she takes up more space than her measure's worth.

Leta is more often encountered as an outgoing, charming peacock, strutting and preening about in clothes spendier than her lowly station should allow, if not always in fashion. She's a dependable, strong soldier, but still, at times, rash and prone to heroics. What coin she earns by her sword is gone in the blink of an eye, generously sown across inns, taverns, assorted peddlers of baubles to be offered to would-be lovers, and clothiers. The clothes, at least, Leta gets to keep.