Poppy is the sort of presence that quiets a room without trying. She stands a soft 2'9" tall, round and plump in a way that invites touch: cheeks like pillowy blossoms, fingers dimpled and warm. Her skin is very pale with a natural rosy flush, as if she'd just stepped in from a cool greenhouse. Dark brown ringlets tumble untidily around a face that always seems to be listening; when she moves she sways slightly, a learned rhythm that puts others at ease. Her dresses favor pastels—mint, powder pink, dove blue—cut simply but with an eye for comfort rather than ostentation. Unexpectedly, she keeps one thumb-scarred, stained finger from an old burn that she tries to hide with lace gloves; that small roughness contradicts her otherwise immaculate softness and hints at older toil. A faint trail of lavender follows her steps, as if the flowers themselves prefer her company.