Mira Bramblefoot looks like a kindly country aunt who wandered into a storybook and decided to run it. Her compact body is wrapped in weathered leather, wool, and faded crimson canvas, all smelling faintly of cedar shavings, rain, and animal musk. She moves with a rolling, almost lazy gait until something threatens a creature under her care, at which point her posture snaps taut and her hands become frighteningly precise. Her smile is warm, but her stillness is predatory. The unexpected contradiction is her immaculate white gloves, which she wears even while cleaning cages, treating wounds, or fighting in mud. Each glove is embroidered with tiny green leaves, and neither has ever shown a stain.