A tall, narrow figure whose skin has the matte, cool sheen of river stone after rain. Their face is long and composed, with fine creases at the mouth from years of weighing testimony. Silver-white hair lies in tight, practical coils beneath a crescent-shaped headpiece. They move in measured half-steps, always turning their whole body toward whoever is speaking; in a crowded room their eyes travel first to doorways, then to hands, never to faces. Their shadow sometimes arrives a heartbeat late beneath moonlight. Unexpectedly, a small, brightly embroidered patch shaped like a turnip is stitched inside the cuff of their formal robe, visible only when they raise the gavel.

They are patient with frightened witnesses but impatient with people who hide behind technicalities. In public, they are ceremonially exact and difficult to read; in private, they can be unexpectedly dry and wry. They believe order prevents cruelty, yet are haunted by the time obedience let cruelty proceed.

Before becoming a supernatural adjudicator, they served as a junior witness-keeper at the court of the Evergreen, recording seasonal bargains and the names of those bound by them. During their first winter in office, a clerk altered the order of a rite, causing a village's promised spring thaw to arrive weeks late. The Adjudicator had noticed a discrepancy but stayed silent, believing procedure would correct itself. The village lost its seed stores. They exposed the clerk afterward, but the dead could not be recalled, and that failure changed their understanding of law: rules are a shelter only when someone uses them to let the endangered speak. They accepted the office of Moonlit Adjudicator, an ancient role that binds them to preserve rites rather than simply stop them. Now, in Session 4: Court of the Evergreen, they have found signs that the current ceremony has been sabotaged. A direct warning would violate the rite's rules, so they are searching for a lawful way to make the visitors notice. They remain close to Veli, a patient groundskeeper who once smuggled them a forbidden witness statement, and distrust Oru, the court's polished master of ceremonies, whose explanations have grown too exact.