Her eyes are pools of shadow, not because they lack light, but because they have seen too much of it.
The ornate patterns on her robes echo the countless paths she has walked in search of answers, though none have soothed the ache of knowing.
The staff she grips is no artifact of power: it is her compass, her confessional, her solitary companion in the labyrinth of fate.
She carries the weight of visions she cannot alter, futures she cannot prevent, and truths she cannot unsee. In her stillness, there is rebellion; in her silence, there is mercy.