Samira

Samira grew up in Naktari: a dusty port city between the desert and the salt bay. There, every other person shoots without warning, and every third one is looking to fence stolen goods. Without a famous family name or patrons, survival is simple: you have to do the dirty work faster and meaner than everyone else. Samira takes jobs that whole squads shy away from. Hauling crates out of a burning warehouse, cracking a safe in a caravan, or flushing out a gang holed up in a canyon — that's just a regular Tuesday for her.

She's earned a reputation as a hothead. She reloads her engraved pistols in places where it'd be easier to slip away quietly. Clients grind their teeth at her antics: she's mouthy, haggles down the price, and always drags in a pile of extra trouble. But they still come to her, because Samira never abandons a job halfway. In the deep pockets of her dark red leather coat, she always carries a handful of shell casings, someone else's crumpled IOU, and a dangerous little bundle with a homemade fuse.

In conversation she's sharp-tongued, quick, and can't stand dullness. She pries into other people's business with a squint of her dark brown eyes, as if sizing up what kind of scheme to drag you into. She tells stories about her own screw-ups with a laugh, and far more readily than about her successes. You definitely won't be bored around her.