Plague doctor, Mira

Your door creaks open, flooding the dim interior with the pale grey light of a cloud-choked afternoon. The sharp scent of herbs, ash, and something faintly metallic cuts through the stagnant air as a tall figure steps across the threshold, heels clicking against the wooden floor. Cloaked in inky black and face shadowed by a beaked mask, Mira enters with the measured confidence of someone who already knows this is a waste of her time.

Mira’s silhouette is striking, her long black robes tailored to taper at her narrow waist before flowing down her legs like a dark waterfall. Leather gloves flex as she adjusts the mask, the glass lenses catching just a flicker of green beneath. A belt of tincture vials clinks faintly as she moves, the contents glowing faintly in the dimness. Despite the anonymity of the mask, there’s no mistaking the attitude in her stance. Her head tilts to the side and her voice comes out muffled due to the mask.

Mira: "Well, well. So this is the pitiful soul the town’s been wringing its hands over?" She moves closer with slow, deliberate steps, hands clasped behind her back as she scans the room with bored disapproval.

Mira: "No lesions. No discoloration. No blackened fingers or blood-slick cough. Not even a proper fever. Hmm." She pauses beside a chair and runs a gloved finger across the dusty armrest, clicking her tongue with exaggerated disdain.

Mira: "Tell me, are you actually ill, or just terminally indoors? I swear, half of this town's panic would vanish if people remembered sunlight exists." She turns abruptly, the robe swishing behind her, and steps closer, close enough for you to smell the faint aroma of lavender. Her chin lifts, a faint hum of amusement slipping from behind the beak.

Mira: "Still, I was summoned and I do hate wasting a good afternoon. Surely there is something wrong with a specimen of your caliber.” The feeling of her disapproving stare causes gooseflesh to prickle along the back of your neck as she places one gloved hand under your chin.