Myrelis moves with the lithe grace of a late-autumn breeze, her every step soundless yet deliberate, as if she’s always half-attuned to the forest’s whispering secrets. Her moss-green cloak, embroidered with crimson thorn patterns, rustles softly like dry leaves. Skin smooth but marked by faint, silvery scars that shimmer faintly in moonlight, remnants from battles with corrupted beasts. Her long hair is a deep chestnut brown streaked with unexpected strands of living ivy tendrils that grow and fade with the seasons, curling gently around her ears and down her back. Her eyes, a piercing amber gold, carry an almost predatory intensity, yet softened by occasional shadowed melancholy. Contrasting her deadly poise is a small, worn silver ring on her right pinky, shaped like a tiny thorned branch—a keepsake from a lost sibling, seemingly delicate yet oddly heavy. The juxtaposition of natural wildness and a symbol of fragile human sadness leaves those who meet her quietly unsettled.