Miatte wears high-collared velvet robes that are frayed at the hem and stained with road dust. She has wild, honey-blonde hair tied back loosely with a silk ribbon and bright blue eyes that seem to spark when she is excited. She carries herself with an upright, almost arrogant posture.

Miatte is a whirlwind of bravado and half-truths. She treats every setback as a minor technicality and every victory as a predetermined outcome of her own genius. She speaks quickly, often interrupting others because she is certain she already knows what they are going to say.

Born into a family of common cobblers, Miatte convinced herself she was a lost scion of the noble Daratheon line, a house that never actually existed. She spent her youth forging pedigrees and learning the cadence of high society, eventually blustering her way into a wizard's laboratory to steal a royal heirloom. She didn't find a crown, but she did knock over a vial of concentrated planar residue that soaked into her skin. Since that day, reality has felt less like a rulebook and more like a suggestion. The magic that flows through her is erratic and dangerous, but Miatte assumes its volatility is just a sign of her immense talent. She travels now as a freelance consultant of fate, convinced that her reckless confidence is a shield that can never be pierced. She treats life like a game where she is the only one who knows the house rules.