A sleek, compact figure wrapped in a tail of black feathers that gleam with oil-dark iridescence. Myrren moves with precise, economical gestures — every tuck of wing and tap of talon feels like punctuation. Their face is longer than most Ravenfolk, a narrow beak rimmed with a web of faint, silver scars that map an old ritual injury. They favor a high collar of stitched parchment strips beneath a tailored storm-grey vest; the parchment is densely written with marginalia and dates visible at a glance. When still, they give the impression of a statue mid-scribe; when they pace, ink and feather pendants sway like a metronome. Unexpectedly, soft, pale moss grows in a neat patch at the base of their left wing — a cultivated living patch they tends as if it were a pet.