Sister Mira moves with an almost serene grace, belying the hard edges of her weathered yet peaceful face. Her pale skin is always faintly dusted with the scent of lavender and old parchment. Her eyes are a sharp moss green flecked with gold, contemplative yet piercing, framed by crow’s feet that deepen when she smiles. Mira's dark chestnut hair is streaked with strands of silver, pulled into a loose, braided crown that sits slightly askew, often tangled with tiny wildflowers or bits of spice leaves she has handled. She wears layered robes of soft cream and pastel blues, embroidered with delicate patterns of waves and vines that shimmer faintly, an unexpected flamboyance for a cleric and shopkeeper. Her left wrist is adorned with a rough leather cuff tangled with small, mismatched charms—tokens from pilgrims and customers alike.