Maenara moves like someone always listening. She is slender and upright with the long-limbed grace of an elf but the deliberate, grounded steps of someone who spends decades on a wooden floor. Her robe is embroidered with tiny barley stalks and small, faded maps of the district hidden in the hem. She keeps a cigarette-thin braid woven with a copper coin and a torn strip of a sailors' banner; the braid swings when she laughs, which is rare but genuine. Unexpectedly, her left forearm is covered in a neat series of faint white burn scars in a spiral pattern that glow faintly only after a night of revelry. Patrons say the scars smell faintly of lemon and smoke when she leans over them.