Marivae Vonn wears the severe elegance of a knife hidden in velvet. Her skin is the deep blue-black of wet obsidian, but along her cheekbones and forearms run thin ivory scar-lines that look almost decorative until they catch the light and reveal old lash wounds. Her white hair is not silken but coarse and springy, shaved close at the sides and braided at the crown with copper wire, tiny bone beads, and one absurdly cheerful green ribbon stolen from a child she once protected. She moves with a measured, side-stepping glide, like someone crossing a frozen pond they do not trust. She smells faintly of rain, iron, and bitter soot. Her left eye is milk-pale from a past poison, while the right is bright amber and unnervingly alert. The contradiction that makes people remember her is that she dresses like an executioner but wears a polished brass brooch shaped like a laughing spiderling.