Kamirra Firstahl

Human cleric who runs a free clinic in the slums. Her grey habit is patched and re-stitched for years of hauling bandages; the hem never quite hangs straight. She moves like someone trained to conserve motion, tilting her head and holding still when she’s listening. Her hands—scarred knuckles, tincture-stained fingertips, nails rimmed with dried salve—betray the work she does without ceremony. A thin chain rests at her throat under her collar and taps her collarbone once when she prays. The clinic smells of boiled cloth, crushed herbs, and damp stone. Two silences rule: fever-sleepers near the back wall, and tight breath-held quiet when she leans in to treat bleeding. A salt-white burn scar crosses her left forearm like a slash that never healed right; she covers it when she can, but it shows whenever she disinfects and treats infections.