Mira possesses a face like a cracked riverbed, weathered and etched with deep lines of perpetual stress. His posture is unnervingly rigid, as if he is constantly bracing against a physical blow. While his frame is lean and efficient, his hands are surprisingly soft and meticulously cared for, often encased in fine silk gloves that contrast sharply with his mud-splattered leather boots. He moves with a calculated economy of motion, never stepping further than necessary, and his gaze is like a cold chisel, seemingly weighing the monetary value of everything he sees. The contradictory softness of his hands and the lavender scent he wears are the only hints of a man who once enjoyed the finer comforts of the capital.