Merrin stands at an unlikely 4'7" for a halfling, a height inherited from an elven father. Her waist-length brown hair moves like a silk banner in a breeze—soft, glossy, and often threaded with tiny charms and the ends singed from too many tavern hearths. Her robe is elven-white, embroidered with faint silver sigils that shift when she moves; the fabric falls like moonlight but has the scuff of a life on the road. She favors a slightly forward-tilted stance, like a cat ready to spring: relaxed, but with every fiber prepared. When she laughs, it's full and open; when she calculates a con, her smile thins and her left eye—once hazel, now a brighter green thanks to a healed bruise and a lingering rune—narrows. An unexpected contradiction: she smells faintly of pipe smoke and lemon cakes at once, an oddly domestic scent on someone who handles forged pedigrees and cursed contracts.