Meander moves like a river: slow to begin, then quick and precise where it matters. Her skin ripples faintly like oil-streaked water under moonlight, and when she tilts her head droplets run from the edges of her jaw as if poured but never quite falling. Her clothes are patched maps—literal cloth charts sewn together along estuaries and eddies—stitched with silver thread. She carries a long lacquered staff capped with a hollow glass orb that perpetually contains a small, whirling pool. Contradiction lives on her person: her eyes are hard and calculating like scraped ice, yet her smile softens into pebbled laughter that smells faintly of sea-salt and lemons. When she walks she favors the outside of cobbled streets, cutting across puddles and sending miniature eddies in their reflections.