My favourite ones are from Graydon Saunders' books about the Commonweal — which are not well-known by any stretch of definition.
"Rust is not obviously anything. One of those people who could be thirty or fifty — Rust could be a schoolmaster or an architect or a team lead for a manufacturing collective, anybody in a trade both dry and not too dusty. Neat, clean, clothes and eyes are good and plain and honest."
"Hardly anyone seems to know Halt’s not a metre-fifty tall and looks like someone’s grandma. Maybe not your grandma, no-one in the Creeks is that delicate, even adjusting for scale, but someone’s." Halt also knits and rides a five tonne battle sheep.
"What must be Blossom rides up, between Rust and Halt’s conveyance. Regulation armour, what is perhaps a real horse, if you stretch “horse” a bit, and really quite a respectable salute."
"There’s this three-beat pause while the pleasant young officer — Blossom looks maybe nineteen — act falters a little, and you can see the sorcerer much more clearly." Blossom is an artist in destruction and on the send nothing less than a brigade if they make trouble list despite being under a hundred.