A small, lively outsider, Nemi moves with the quick, springy steps of someone perpetually hurrying to see what has taken root. Soil smudges both knees, and damp crumbs of earth cling to the hems of their clothes. Tousled hair is crowded with tiny flowers, some fresh and some dried into papery curls. A little golden sun-disc sacred to Orven hangs at their throat, bright against a pocket stuffed with seeds. Their most surprising detail is a neat, wax-sealed packet of carefully sorted, scorched seeds kept beside the loose seed: they treat even disaster's remnants as worth saving. They smell strongly of wet loam, crushed mint, and the faint sourness of compost, and seem entirely unaware of it. When startled, their breath catches in a dry, leafy rattle before they can speak.

Playful, energetic, and persistent, Nemi trusts that neglected places can become generous again, but their optimism has a stubborn edge. With children and willing gardeners, they turn every task into a game; when someone is grieving, they stop joking and offer practical help without forcing cheer. In negotiations they are bright and disarming until a person dismisses the labor of others, at which point their patience becomes blunt and unyielding.

Nemi came into being in the narrow strip of ground between a collapsed shrine and a row of tenements, where rainwater, discarded peelings, and windblown seed collected. They were not born to a temple or a throne: their first memory is of a child pressing a bean into a crack and promising to come back for it. Nemi learned the small, stubborn work of renewal from Ilva, a practical caretaker who coaxed a shared garden out of an abandoned lot. For years, Nemi helped neighbors bargain over water, tools, and whose turn it was to weed. Their playful persistence made them welcome, though their insistence that every patch could be saved sometimes exhausted the people doing the saving.