Mariam

The dim glow of the swamp lanterns flickers across Mariam’s purple mohawk as she crouches beside a bubbling cauldron, orange downcast eyes scanning the thickening brew. "Ah… just a pinch o’ moonspore an’—grins—the last tooth o’ a lying bard. Perfect fer seein’ truths in the dark." She stirs counterclockwise, muttering runes under her breath. "An’ they said I’d never make a proper shaman…"