Mirelle moves like someone used to carrying both burdens and small wonders: steady-footed, with a slight sway that makes her seem always on the verge of smiling. Her light blonde hair is usually braided into a loose crown threaded with tiny glass beads that catch sun and lamplight; stray wisps soften her face. Her skin is sun-tan, freckled across the bridge of a nose that hints at elven refinement. She favors blue robes worn over practical leather and chain links at the shoulders, the edges hem-stitched with faded sigils of her temple. When she prays, her fingers make small, precise signs — a habit learned in a cramped sanctum — and her gray eyes seem almost silver, focused and reflective. Unexpectedly, the hem of her robe is always damp: not from sweat but from a ritual oil she frequently refreshes, leaving a faint scent of salt and citrus.