Myrd is tall and narrow as a chapel door, moving with the measured grace of someone who never wastes a gesture. Their skin looks like pale porcelain dusted with faint shadow, but when light catches it, thin gold lines shimmer beneath the surface like repaired cracks in an ancient relic. Their face is strikingly severe, with elegant cheekbones, a mouth made for verdicts, and a single smile that always seems slightly too late. One eye is liquid silver, the other is a deep bruised violet, both ringed by lashes so dark they seem inked on. Their hair falls in a heavy curtain of blue-black silk, kept immaculately bound with a strip of faded funeral ribbon, yet several strands are always loose as if the world cannot quite contain them. They wear a tailored mantle of midnight velvet over a robe of ash-white linen, embroidered with tiny constellations that resemble hooks, needles, and closed hands. The unexpected detail is that their gloves are bright, cheerful yellow wool, worn thin at the fingertips, giving them the strange look of a judge who has just finished mending a child’s coat.