Farisela stands barely over 3 feet tall, her nimble frame wrapped in a patchwork of vivid colors that seem to dance with every twitch of her fingers. Her hair is a wild, flame-orange mop of curls that crackle almost imperceptibly with static energy, a spark of literal fire she conjured herself long ago. Her movements are a kaleidoscope of restless energy — darting eyes, fingers that never stop fidgeting or flicking, and a constant mischievous grin that suggests she knows a secret you don't. Unexpectedly, Farisela wears a pair of well-worn black leather gloves, an odd choice for someone with the nickname “Firefinger,” but she explains with a wink that they protect her delicate fingertips from her own little sparks. The gloves, however, are stitched with tiny silver runes invisible unless held to light, hinting at hidden protections and her rogue expertise.