Mira Vell wears the weather-beaten confidence of someone who has slept in better ruins than most scholars have seen in books. She is lean and quick, with sun-browned skin faintly freckled across the nose, and a practical grace in every movement, like a scout trained to step lightly even while carrying prayer beads, rope, and a shield. Her hair is copper-brown and usually braided into a rope thick enough to survive rain, sweat, and bad roads, though loose strands escape around her face in a wind-tossed halo. One eye is a clear gray-blue, the other a warm hazel from a childhood fever that left her with an odd, unsettling symmetry. She dresses in layered traveler gear beneath a short cleric's mantle stitched with tiny trail markers, holy sigils, and old map lines, and she keeps one sleeve immaculate while the other is perpetually stained with ink, mud, or healing salves. The contradiction that sticks in memory is this: for a mercenary, she looks almost gentle, but her smile is the kind that says she has already judged how you will behave in a cave and is prepared to be disappointed.