Mollin is a young adult dwarf woman with a compact, sturdy frame and the springy balance of someone accustomed to carrying sloshing barrels over uneven floors. Her skin is warm umber, textured by fine dust from grain stores and faintly shiny across the knuckles from years of oiling wood. A thick crown of dark copper hair is braided into four short ropes, each bound with colored thread and tiny brass washers that click when she turns her head. Her beard is not long, but she keeps two carefully combed side-plaits beneath her jaw, decorated with blue glass beads. She has broad hazel eyes, a blunt chin, and a smile that arrives a moment before her trust does. She smells unmistakably of toasted barley, beeswax, damp cellar stone, and orange peel, and she knows it, carrying a sprig of bitter mint to chew whenever she feels self-conscious. She stands with her weight on the balls of her feet, as though every conversation might become a chase. The unexpected contradiction is her delicacy: despite her barrel-maker's hands, she handles cups, insects, and fragile paper with astonishing gentleness.