Nami is an older human woman with a compact, weather-bent body and the restless balance of someone who has spent fifty years climbing narrow terraces with full baskets in both hands. Her fingers are broad at the joints, permanently darkened beneath the nails by soil and thornfruit sap, while the palms are ridged with fine calluses that feel more like tree bark than skin. Her iron-gray hair is braided into a crown pinned with dried seedpods. A split front tooth shows whenever she scolds someone, and strips of green cloth are tied around both ankles, their frayed ends flicking like little leaves when she walks. Her clothes smell of crushed mint, smoke, and rain-soaked clay. Despite her practical, mud-stained appearance, she wears one immaculate silver button at her throat, polished every morning with absurd care. She leaves people with the impression of a stern garden statue that might suddenly bend down and whisper a secret to a dying plant.