Marrek moves like a man who has practiced every gesture to put strangers at ease: slow, open-handed, with the constant half-smile of someone welcoming a weary traveler home. His face is narrow and pleasantly lined, a silvering goatee trimmed to a neat point. He favors soft, loose collars that reveal the top of his chest where a faint, pale scale pattern hides beneath the skin — visible only when the lamplight hits at a strange angle. His hands are warm and callused, always dusted with flour from the inn's breads. He carries a faint scent of citrus and star anise that lingers around him, undercut by a colder, metallic undertone that some animals recoil from. When he hurries, his movements become sinuous, elbows tucked, feet almost whispering over floorboards. The impression he leaves is comforting and slightly uncanny: you feel invited and watched.