A lean gold dragonborn with sun-yellow scales, bright gold eyes, and a long, expressive tail that flicks like a metronome when she is thinking. She wears practical layered travel clothes, herb pouches, and a weathered star chart sash marked with charcoal notes. Her scales catch the light like polished amber, and she smells faintly of mint, smoke, and rain-dried grass.

Alert, inventive, and a little unmoored from ordinary priorities. She is generous with remedies and advice, intensely curious about patterns, and strangely polite to beasts of burden, whom she treats like respected business partners. She can go from warm laughter to intense, private concentration in a heartbeat.

A trading caravan found her as an infant near a border road, wrapped in a scrap of sailcloth and crying beneath an uncaring sky. No one knew whose child she was, so the caravan matron traded stories and food for her care until the old herbalist on the edge of the route, a druid of the stars, took her in. The woman raised her among drying roots, ink-stained maps, and hanging bundles of medicinal plants. She taught the child that every fever had its own remedy, every poison its antidote, and every night sky a pattern worth learning by heart. She grew restless under the herb shed roof. By day she sorted leaves, stitched poultice satchels, and listened to the old woman recite the names of constellations. By night she slipped out to race along the caravan wagons, bargaining with pack animals, planning foolish treasure hunts, and leading other children into mock expeditions through the grasslands and ravines beyond the road. The old herbalist called her a disaster with excellent instincts, and the child learned to answer to both the call of the road and the pull of wild places. Now she travels with a satchel full of roots, bones, charms, and scraps of broken string, certain that any discarded thing might become useful medicine, a clue, or the key to a future miracle.