Small and unexpected: an 8-year-old half-elf with tousled chestnut hair that never quite stays braided. Delicate pointed ears peek through the mess of hair. Her skin is dusted with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are a soft silver-gray that seem to drink in light and hold a quiet, old-soul attention. She moves with the unhurried confidence of someone used to calming storms; her steps are light and deliberate. Around her neck hangs a tiny wooden holy symbol, carved crudely in the shape of an open hand cradling a star. The symbol smells faintly of sap and sea salt as if it has been at once newly carved and long treasured. Unexpectedly, she has a small, faded inked map hidden inside the hem of her shirt, the lines scratched in a childish hand. When she giggles she can be wholly playful and unrestrained; when she prays she folds into herself with sudden, solemn focus that feels decades old.