Phexelara Mornith

Phexelara moves through space like water, her spotted fur rippling beneath well-worn leather armor scarred from countless fights. She keeps her claws sheathed despite the habit of flexing them when thinking—a discipline born from mercy rather than restraint. Her tail swishes in tight, controlled arcs, betraying impatience the rest of her composed face won't admit. A fighter's hands, calloused and precise, adjust the worn grip on her blade with the same care she uses to smooth a younger recruit's furrowed brow. Those golden eyes miss nothing, tracking threats most would dismiss, and she bears a jagged scar across her ribs—not with pride, but with the quiet knowledge that she's learned from nearly every mistake. She carries a small wooden mouse in her belt pouch, polished smooth, the only softness in her otherwise practical arsenal.