Marelle moves like someone who learned to fight in cramped alleys and tight ship rigging — compact, economical, always leaving space for others. Her armor is battered but neatly cared for; the right pauldron bears a nicked deep enough to hide a coin in. She wears a silver locket against her sternum beneath her tabard, its face polished to a mirror sheen despite the grime on her gauntlets. Her left hand is scarred in a lattice pattern from a rope burn; her right forearm is banded with faint white marks where a blade once bit her. A short, practical braid falls over her shoulder, threaded with a single small blue ribbon — an old child's ribbon she never speaks of. Unexpectedly, she favors a delicate ring of twist-iron on her pinky, almost ornamental among the roughness, and keeps one boot cleaner than the other as if to remind herself of proper order.