Small, weathered, and precise in motion. Sister Aveline moves like someone used to carrying water and candlelight; her hands are quick and gentle while her posture never quite relaxes. She wears a stained linen veil threaded with tiny sewn charms of bone and river glass. A network of faint white scars runs along the inside of her forearms, hidden by sleeves, a map of old burns from a fire that took half her shrine decades ago. When she walks the light plays on the metal amulet at her throat, engraved with a symbol that looks like a tree and a crescent moon overlapped. Unexpectedly elegant fingers contrast with rough, calloused palms, and she hums tunelessly while working, the sound both comforting and slightly hollow.