Mirieth moves like someone who has spent equal parts of her life beneath the open sky and in sudden, quiet motion. Her skin holds a sun-baked, leathery warmth of many seasons tending soil; faint white scars, like old furrows, run along the backs of her forearms where a thresher once nicked her. Her long, curly yellow hair is usually braided into a thick rope that hangs over one shoulder, threaded with a strip of braided straw and a tarnished copper ring — a peasant's braid made defiant. She wears a patched brown leather jerkin reinforced with pieces of scavenged plow-iron, and a moss-gray travel cloak that smells faintly of hay and river reed. Her boots are soft-soled and oddly silent for a woman who stomps through wet fields; when she walks in town she keeps to the edges, eyes scanning like a hawk. Unexpectedly, she adorns a child-sized ribbon of deep indigo at her wrist — a small, elegant thing that catches the light and seems out of place on a field-hardened ranger. The overall impression is of practical warmth: someone you could trust to bring soup and to watch your back.