Marcellus moves like a man used to negotiating space: elbows measured, steps deliberate. He wears a weathered half-cloak pinned at one shoulder so his forearms are always free; the cloak's inner lining is embroidered with dozens of tiny, faded sigils—marks of stalls he once managed. His hands are broad with fine scars and a habit of fiddling with a carved walnut bead rosary threaded through his fingers. When still, he often leans as if listening for a distant sound. Unexpectedly, his right shoe is new and immaculate while the left is patched beyond recognition, a small contradiction that catches people's eye and questions their assumptions.