A plainly dressed human with weathered brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and a broad, work-worn face. Their gray wool prayer shawl is patched at both shoulders, and the small brass sun disk at their throat has been polished smooth where their thumb constantly rubs it. Their voice is low and practical, usually steady enough to calm a frightened room, but when rattled their breath catches between words and their prayers come out in short, measured bursts.

Toma is patient, observant, and quietly stubborn. They listen without interrupting, remember people's names after one meeting, and prefer useful questions to comforting speeches. They have a dry sense of humor that appears most often while doing unpleasant chores.

Toma Saran was born in a riverside market town where human families hauled grain, repaired boats, and measured their lives by flood seasons. Their mother kept the shrine accounts, while their father mended the town bell rope and taught Toma that a useful hand was holier than a loud promise. When a spring flood swept through the lower streets, Toma spent three days carrying children and sacks of medicine between rooftops. A traveling priest of the Lady of Mercy noticed that Toma never stopped to ask who deserved help, and brought them to the temple as an acolyte. Toma learned the rites, copied burial records, cleaned the infirmary, and became skilled at noticing who was missing from a crowded room. Their faith is not grand or mystical in their own mind. It is bread divided fairly, wounds washed before questions are asked, and a lamp kept burning for whoever arrives after dark. The temple has now sent Toma beyond its walls to accompany pilgrims and aid settlements neglected by richer churches. Toma carries little certainty about doctrine, but absolute certainty that abandoning people in need is a sin.