Hirisi

Some call Hirisi a witch. They paint pictures of her bedecked in animal bones, her hair matted with vines that twist and curl through her long curls, her skin burned with sigils and icons of forgotten magics. Hirisi is content to allow them their superstitions as she laughs over her tea; she has long since forgotten the sting of their misunderstanding. It is sufficient that she knows her survival skills are hewn from long decades of service on the frontier rather than pacts with spirits and spooks. She knows they will be thankful for them when the night draws in and the fire sputters to embers, then, the witch will become. And that has always been enough.