Vixie moves like a pocket of spring wind: quick, warm, and impossible to hold. She stands slightly taller than many halflings, with a quick-step gait that always keeps one shoulder angled as if ready to slip through a crowd. Her clothes are layered and patched in tasteful, mismatched fabrics—darker panels where dirt would show, bright trims where she wants attention. Her fingers are ink-stained and deft; her left eyebrow bears a pale, crescent-shaped scar from a childhood fall. Contradiction is a part of her look: a wide, almost childish grin and dimples, paired with eyes that calculate a dozen exits at once. When she laughs she claps her hands like a child; when she concentrates her lips flatten into the tight line of someone older than she lets on.