Mira Vey looks like a half-starved alley cat that learned to smile with a knife in hand. She is short and compact, with quick, spring-loaded movement and the silent balance of a practiced jailhouse climber. Her skin is pale with a faint bluish undertone from long confinement, and her black hair is cut unevenly around the jaw, with one longer braid wrapped in copper wire. Her amber eyes are bright and watchful, but one pupil is clouded by a scar that does not fully hide. She wears prison-gray layers altered into a sly parody of court finery, with hidden seams, stitched pockets, and a spotless white ribbon at the throat that seems absurdly delicate for someone so dangerous. The contradiction is unnerving: she smells faintly of lavender soap and antiseptic, as if she refuses to let filth claim her completely.