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Oili was a relic from the foregone years in the Cliffmore home. Having no direct relationship to any of the living family and older than most of them, she was a background nobility character that plied her trade in spirit worship quietly so as to not bother anyone around her and patched up the knights and hunters that would occasionally be wounded by the Abandoned or animals in the hills around them. As an aged, widowed woman with no direct ties to the house, there were fewer suitors at her door each year, which allowed her to pursue her own ideal of nobility. Mostly, it involved becoming intimate with the wilderness surrounding their home and the occasional sprint from an Abandoned patrol. Perhaps it was a silly thing for someone in her station to document the flora and fauna of the hills, but she wanted to do it, if no other reason than it allowed her to pass the days. When Cliffmore lost their liege, and protection, she slipped back into a mood, interacting less with the rest of the family. She performed her duties - some even said better - and she volunteered for other duties she need not do to take her mind off the situation. When the avalanches happened, she was presumed dead for good reason, though that wasn't to be her lot in life. She managed to make it to Aviaron's Peak eventually, only to find a new liege waiting on her. Bending the knee was an easy decision, deciding her place would be the harder one.

Weathered and brow beaten into subserviance, this is not a dainty face. It has forehead lines, eye bags, and cracked lips. Veins protrude over the aged pupils as they work their way around to the back of the eyeball, small, thin eyebrows standing guard to keep dirt out. Her long, red hair has frayed and split at several ends as more and more braids are added to attempt to hide instead of repair the damage. She has several wraps around her wrists and hands, all visible parts looking weathered and used. There are several necklaces made from various rocks clearly on display across her chest.

Once, long ago, Oili might have been an exuberant child filled with the mirth of spring and laughter of fall. She might have had dreams of becoming a princess, hair billowing down the side of a tower to allow a charming knight to take her away to an extravagant land far away. Then, as if a mirror was smashed, the wars began and her mirth changed to melancholy, her laughter to gloom and her dreams to hatred. A woman whose dreams were snatched away, she devoted herself entirely to one task at a time, working down a growing list of small but necessary tasks. It's good for her to work, because without work she becomes nothing more than a bundle of worry and missed opportunities.