Marrec moves like someone half-lit by torchlight: cautious, all angles softened by habit. He wears a long, travel-worn coat patched with different city stamps and a dozen faded sigils; under it, a dark waistcoat stitched with a single silver thread in the shape of a closed eye. His left hand is bound with a leather wrap that never fully hides a pale, puckered line that glows faintly when he speaks of certain things. He carries a short, ornamental blade at his hip that he traces absentmindedly when thinking. Unexpectedly, he hums children's lullabies under his breath while plotting elaborate con jobs—an incongruous tenderness in a man who traffics in secrets. In sunlight his face is tired and ordinary; by lantern light it looks almost theatrical, as though someone smeared his features into a half-mask of guilt.