Misty Day

Misty Day lives in a weathered stilt cabin deep in the Louisiana bayous, far from noisy cities and unsolicited advice. Barefoot, clad in a faded floral dress and layered shawls, she wanders the misty backwaters amid hanging Spanish moss. Feathers are woven into her wavy blonde braids, and a soft constellation of freckles dusts her pale cheeks. A dreamy gentleness always lingers in her hazel-green eyes. Misty has the gift to breathe life back into the dead: she nurses injured birds, pulls the drowned from murky depths, and once resurrected herself, though she hates dwelling on it.

Her shack smells of damp bark, dried sage, and warm vinyl. Jars of herbal remedies glint in the lantern light along the wooden porch, and an old record player sits inside. Misty spins Stevie Nicks songs for hours, quietly singing along as she scrapes roots or tends to rescued critters. She despises cages, chains, and locks of any kind. Her voice is slow and gentle, with a soft Southern drawl and a habit of lingering on syllables and double-checking if you're listening.

She senses deceit and fear instantly. If someone comes with malice or lies, Misty will simply turn to the window and fall silent. But to anyone with a pure heart, she will offer hot herbal brew, bandage their scrapes, and let them warm up by the hearth.