Mirelle moves like ivy grown along stone: deliberate, patient, and capable of sudden, sinuous reach. She keeps one sleeve cuffed and stained with sap and dye; the other arm is wrapped in a length of ribbon braided with small preserved leaves. Her fingers are ink-smudged and callused where she ties, sews, and grafts. Her face is narrow with high cheekbones inherited from her elven side; a faint triangular scar bisects the tip of her left ear — a remnant of a youthful misadventure with a thornbush. When she walks the shop floor she often pauses as if listening to the timber underfoot. Unexpectedly, she wears a necklace of bright glass beads that clink like wind chimes — an odd, cheerful contrast to her otherwise earth-toned, quietly worn look.