[ FF ] Show me what a character looks like without directly telling me . Make me love them , hate them , or do n't develop them at all , but let actions and imagery do most of the work .

This might be too far off from what you were looking for, but... this is what came to mind.... 
 
 A soft breeze rustled the tall grass of the meadow just beyond the trees where she crouched. Dawn hadn ’ t fully broken, and the soft light glistened as it reflected and refracted off of the early morning dew. She pulled her cloak tighter, shutting out the damp chill. The wool was faded and worn, and patches showed in many places, the colors all the same, but in varying shades of age. A motley, but made up of only earthy greens. 
 
 A few strands of wet hair had come loose and hung in front of her eyes, sticking out of from the overly-large hood, pieces of straw poking out from an over-stuffed scarecrow. 
 
 A patch of grass swished in the meadow, too violent to have been made by the breeze. Her eyes immediately darted to its source, and then around the area in a quick, calculated pattern. Her lips, which had been slightly parted as she let her breath slowly in and out, closed into a hard line, her eyelids narrowed. She gripped the riser of her bow with a delicate firmness, though her missiles remained in their quiver at her hip. No need to draw just yet. 
 
 *Wait*. 
 
 A small brown head popped up from the grass, barely visible. 
 
 *Not yet. * 
 
 Something, a sound beyond her hearing, a smell perhaps, and the deer sprang from its succor, bounding with graceful leaps towards the increased safety of the forest ’ s edge. And still she crouched, motionless, a statue. 
 
 Then came the sharp twang of a bowstring, the whistle of a spinning arrow, the wet contact with the fleeing animal, and the finality of the cold thump as the deer fell to the hard ground, unmoving. 
 The silence that followed seemed deafeningly loud. 
 
 *Not yet. * 
 
 A full minute passed. 
 The hunter emerged from the trees at the far side of the meadow. He looked around furtively for a moment, and apparently deciding the way was clear, he jogged out across the grass, toward his prize. 
 
 One of *them*. A *Taker*. A hunter from the nearby “ town. ” 
 
 With a spectacular grace and fluidity of movement, she rose, already in a shooter ’ s stance. A solitary arrow slid swiftly from the deerskin quiver, hit the knock at the same moment she drew the freshly waxed string back to taut and let fly. The entire effort taking seconds, nothing wasted, the hand-made projectile spun tightly through the crisp morning air and lodged itself in the jogging hunter ’ s left eye socket, snapping his head back even as his lifeless body pitched forward into the wet grass. 
 
 She exhaled a puff of misty breath in a long sigh, lowering the weapon back to her side. She blinked, once, before turning away from where the man fell, drew her knife with her right hand, and stalked silently over to where lay the slaughtered deer. 

