Miro is a narrow, weathered man whose age shows in the folded skin beneath his jaw and the pale scars crossing both hands, yet he moves with the quiet balance of someone accustomed to unstable ground. His face is long and wind-burnished, with a blunt nose, deep-set golden eyes, and a mouth that seems permanently close to either a smile or a warning. His hands tremble when he is idle, but become perfectly still when he touches a map, a wounded creature, or a magical object. He smells faintly of dust, cedar smoke, and bitter orange peel. His most unsettling contradiction is his warmth: he looks like a starving pilgrim, but carries himself with the patient confidence of a man who has already survived the end of the world once.