Maribah moves like a reed in wind: quick, slightly lurching, then deliberately still. Her dark skin has the burnished sheen of temple bronze, mottled with a faint, almost-tvstatic pattern of pale scars across one forearm where runes were once branded and faded. She favors a long, hooded robe of deep indigo embroidered with tiny sun-threads that flash when she moves; beneath it, layered scarves and sashes in saffron and ash hide pockets and straps. Her left hand wears a set of thin copper rings chained to a small carved bone token she fingers when anxious. When calm she smiles like someone who remembers honey; when threatened her pupils seem to narrow, then stutter, as if frames of sight are skipping. Unexpectedly, she often carries a child's wooden slingshot tucked into a fold of her sash — a playful, incongruous relic that she treats with the reverence one would give a reliquary.