Though grown, Tovah is still much like a child. Her inquisitiveness is boundless and unforgiving, and many of her hours have been consumed by watching the sky as it changes to dusk, or following the path of a particularly interesting vine up a tree. Despite hardly ever being bored, she appears outwardly as a tepid and strangely aloof creature, completely unflappable, and is more likely to ask a poisonous snake why he bites instead of fleeing from him. She is a nonconformist in that she lacks self-consciousness and nearly all sense of shame, unapologetic of her traits and faults and pleasantly oblivious to the opinions of naysayers. In conversation she is blunt and embarrassingly honest, withdrawn when not speaking of fungi on willow bark or the migration pattern of earthworms, which is consistently less often than she'd like, and can leave an odd taste in the mouths of chosen coterie; though socially clumsy, she is an intelligent, kindly soul, and will make attempts to remedy those wounds she inflicts in her own way. She has not known love except that in the gentlest form which she feels for the gods, goddesses and totems that command her reverence, and though she is hopelessly innocent in knowing the extent of such affections, Tovah finds that, in regards to physicality, the feminine form is much lovelier.

She is fond of stories, particularly mythology, and has an inclination towards superstition. Though she discovered countless religions and beliefs on her travels, either through worship or by word of mouth, she has adopted them all as her own, and is on a constant quest to find others and learn their holy prophecies and scripture so that she might make sense of the world. Romantic and absolutely devout, Tovah values nature and knowledge above all things material, and in rare, often unintelligible bouts of passion, will defend them with her life.

Her mother, an herbalist, died after accidentally ingesting a poisonous plant while experimenting when Tovah was very young, and so the girl was raised by her eccentric father, who practiced divination, and with whom she was very close. She often acted as his apprentice when those from the herd far beneath their reclusive mountain dwelling would come for readings, but soon after his lover's death the wizened, strange man's visions had begun to cloud and were plagued by shadows he could not discern, and in his resulting fear he grew paranoid. For a year he shunned all mortal contact and kept his daughter close, readying himself for the spirits' inevitable message, preparing to be graced with their divine direction, until at last, with a heavy heart, he cast Tovah out, too; convinced that the ancient face in the wise silvern tree atop the mountain itself had advised him in doing so.

The child abandoned her post reluctantly but dutifully and set out for the world with wet eyes, a prayer for her father's eventual peace of mind constantly at the forefront of her thoughts, though she quickly found that a gypsy's life suited her, and that her tireless feet were rightly starved after so long in stagnation. Satiating their hunger proved intoxicating, and soon she had seen the vastness of sea and desert alike, traveled with pagan nomads in plains of razor-sharp grasses and laid strands of pearls and gutted mackerel on the steps of pirate-gods' shrines, sharing her limited knowledge of healing herbs and augury in exchange for stories. She continues to roam, and yearns to complete her intangible and invaluable collection.

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