Merrin moves like someone used to keeping one eye on the door. He is compact and quick, with hands that are always in motion. His face carries the map of a life spent in late nights and early mornings: a diagonal scar that runs from brow to temple, shallow laugh lines, and skin darkened by years leaning over the hearth. He favors simple gestures but his fingers end in faint calluses that suggest work other than serving ale. Unexpectedly, he always wears a child's silk ribbon tied to his left wrist as if proving gently that tenderness is not gone from him. His smile arrives slow and deliberate and leaves an aftertaste of consideration.