Marda moves with the measured steadiness of someone used to carrying trays, sacks of seed, and secret packages. She stands slightly hunched at the shoulders from years tending roots and stooping into cellars, but her step is springy and quick when she wants it to be. Her hands are knobby and callused, flecked with persistent dirt under the nails despite nightly scrubbing. She wears a perpetual faint dusting of pollen along her forearms and the collar of her dress; when she draws near, the smell of damp earth and brewing ale comes like an odd, comforting greeting. Her smile is warm but spare — it creases mostly at one side, the other side of her mouth habitually reserved. Unexpectedly, hidden beneath her skirts and visible only when she moves quickly, there are faded tattoos in a looping, foreign script along the inside of her left calf, the ink darkened by time but clearly deliberate: a reminder of a life she rarely mentions. She favors practical motion: short, efficient steps, a habit of pivoting on a heel as if always ready to rearrange furniture or slip through a crowded room unseen.