Maris moves like a shadow that remembers daylight. She favors angles and economy of motion: each step is measured, each hand placement deliberate. Her travel-worn cloak is lined in many hidden pockets; the hood's interior is embroidered with the faded names of places she once swore never to return to. When she walks through a town, she nods briefly to tavern-keepers and stoops to check the edges of gutters as if looking for tracks only she can see. Unexpectedly gentle hands, callused and stained with pine resin, trace the edges of a brass locket she keeps beneath her shirt when nervous. Her gait can switch from cat-quiet to brisk stalking in a heartbeat, leaving the impression of someone both at home in trees and always slightly out of step with people.