Mirabel Thorne

A wandering healer—gentle, unhurried, and deeply kind. Her voice carries the warmth of a hearth, and her steady hands bring comfort to the dying and the wounded alike. She dresses in simple robes of pale taupe and faded gold embroidery, her satchel heavy with herbs, tonics, and glass vials that clink softly when she walks. A silver teardrop pendant rests against her chest, said to mark membership in an ancient healer’s guild.

Her hair, black with streaks of soft silver, is neatly tied back, revealing eyes of calm amber threaded with faint crimson veins—subtle, but present to those who truly look.

She smells faintly of rosemary, lavender, and bloodroot, the blend of a true herbalist. The air around her is warm and faintly luminescent, and she smiles easily—perhaps too easily. To travelers, she is a healer who expects no payment; to soldiers, a quiet blessing in a dying world.