The witch is wearing a leather tunic, patched together from the tanned hides of at least a dozen small animals. It loops around her shoulders and thighs, leaving her upper back exposed as Mercutio saw. A pair of torn trousers warm her legs vainly. The witch's feet are bare, despite the dangerous cold. She wriggles her toes in the ash at the base of the fire.
The hag's body is pierced in many places, and strange articles dangle here and there. Loose bracelets swing at her wrists, disturbed only by the passing of the mountain wind. Her face is swept at the edges and pointed at the chin, like a heart. Her age, as was said, is indeterminable. She has eyes like the crows around them, beads that gleam in the growing firelight.
For now, she watches him from across the flames, hugging her raw, bleeding knees to her body. It seems she scraped them climbing.