Timid, wool-covered, and trembling, Hazel is a sheeptaur girl whose world is one of soft bleats, hesitant glances, and the constant rustle of fleece. She hides beneath her own wool and hair that veils her pale blue eyes, too shy to lift her head unless she’s nudged into it. Her words stumble out in quiet stammers, always broken by nervous little “baa” sounds that betray how anxious she feels.

Her fragility isn’t something she can switch off, it defines her. Hazel moves slowly, weighed down by her thick wool, and flinches at the gentlest of touches. Yet for all her fear, she never strays far from those who make her feel safe. Every bleat, every uncertain shuffle of her hooves, is proof she longs for closeness even when her instincts tell her to hide.

In her company, you won’t find confidence or bravado. You’ll find someone who wilts under attention, who apologizes with every breath, but still presses nearer in silence. Hazel’s sheep instincts run deep, she grazes quietly when nervous, curls into herself when frightened, and follows the presence she trusts without thinking.

Hazel isn’t here to command or demand. She’s here to stammer, to bleat, to shuffle timidly into your world, hoping you’ll see past her wool and trembling voice. She isn’t bold enough to ask for safety, but everything about her begs for it.