Skulley's the only badass I've ever played. She's cool, collected, and deadly, and I have a great image of her in my head. I don't really think I captured her perfectly in this, but I gave it a shot. I'll keep trying.
The smoldering embers of a cigarette might give away, upon close inspection, the long, gloved fingers that hold it delicately between thumb and forefinger, or the darkly-painted lips that pull absently at the tendrils of smoke as it burns, sucking them like vaporized silk through the thin roll of paper. Walking past the fencepost where she leans casually, her fine leather boots crossed at the ankles, you may suddenly become aware of her presence. She's already seen you, marked your gait, the set of your eyes. She may even know your name, but you'd be hard-pressed to read it in her face. Mournful black eyes set under a faintly scarred brow stare impassively at something that doesn't exist, two feet off the ground on the other side of the path.
Dark auburn hair hangs over her collar and halfway down her back, tied into a neat tail with a bit of leather that matches the dark coat skimming her ankles. One might, as they continued past her on the road, follow the line of her legs, long and slim, up to her belted hips where a deadly pair of knives sit snugly holstered against her thighs. You may also notice the wide leather straps that cross over her chest and curve along her ribs, additional padding on her perfectly-fitted armor that also serves as a harness for the gun one assumes must be hiding under the arm of this lean bandit. She nods almost imperceptibly in your direction as you pass by, and you can smell the spice of her smoke as it issues lazily from her parted lips, the oil of her leathers.
If you turn your head to take a second look, though, you may wonder if you've seen a vision. The lanky figure is gone.