Mirelle walks like someone who grew up on uneven roots rather than cobblestones: knees slightly bent, steps deliberately silent, weight almost never forward. Her skin is freckled and sun-creased at the nose; she wears a single long plait wound with dried lavender, copper wire, and a tiny iron bolt that she never takes out. Across her forearms are faint pale scars in winding, leaf-like patterns from an old bramble incident. Her cloak is a patchwork of mossy greens and browned linen, stitched in a spiral pattern that mimics tree rings. When she moves her cloak rustles like dry leaves; when she is still, birds have been known to test the air near her shoulders. The unexpected element: around her left wrist she wears a delicate lace cuff—fine whitework obviously made by city hands—contrasting with her otherwise rough, forest-forged attire.