Mirelle moves like a reed in wind — deliberate, quietly yielding until it matters to hold firm. She wears a woven mantle of faded moss-green with stitched pockets that bulge with dried roots and folded notes. Her left forearm is wrapped in a thin leather strip pressed with faint sigils scratched into the hide; she traces them with thumb when thinking. Her hands are ink-stained at the nails and perpetually dusted with pollen. At dusk she often carries three smooth, palm-sized stones strung on a cord that hum softly against each other when she walks. Contradiction: her face is gentle, almost childlike in its open curiosity, but her right eye has a thin white scar running from brow to cheek that tightens when she is angry, giving her a feral aspect for a heartbeat.