"Pa taught me" is all the explanation she's ever been heard to give. A stranger in a strange town, she earned a modicum of respect quick enough trading punches in bars for quiet tables and guarded, jealous looks — which quickly turn to confusion as she waved off the sufficiently impressed doe-eyed cows trying to make a move. Dorji never wanted to bother anyone, but it seems men can't help throwing themselves at the biggest target in town, and once she knocked one down a fresh face popped up in its place. Sure, she'll mend a fence quick as she'll poleaxe a man, and those muscles aren't just for show, but she's earned herself a wide berth and a wary eye from the local law doing it.

Some of her traveling companions find her stilted bursts of propriety strange. She treats a guest at a campfire with more respect than a business owner or employer, and despite her size she can never quite seem to finish her food — especially fish, which she refuses to touch. The pendant she carries, if pressed, she'll explain: it belonged to her mother. She considers it a very important stone and might one day give it to a child or lover, but it's unlikely she'll let it out of her sight until then.