Mara Venn moves like a woman who has spent half her life carrying trays and the other half carrying vows. She is broad through the shoulders, with a weathered steadiness in her stance, yet her hands are surprisingly delicate, scarred at the knuckles but clean and precise. Her hair is iron gray shot through with a stubborn band of auburn at the temples, usually braided tight and pinned up with a tarnished holy symbol. She wears an apron over polished mail, an odd pairing that makes her look at once domestic and battle-ready. The contradiction suits her: the smell of fresh bread clings to her cloak, but so does the faint scent of lamp oil and sanctified incense. One eye is pale green, the other dark amber, and when she is angry the amber one seems almost lit from within.