Maerun moves like a wave against cliffstone: a lithe, buxom young woman in polished, tailored plate that hugs her waist and hips as if stitched by a loving smith. Her long brown hair is braided in three thick ropes that hang past her belt, each braid threaded with small iron rings and a faded blue ribbon she once stole from a lover. Her eyes are an arresting violet — not an unusually bright tint but a slow, sharp violet that studies people like a tide studies sand. Her armor is burnished to a soft pewter, scuffed at the knees and edges from use; the leather beneath smells faintly of sun-warmed seaweed and lavender soap. When she moves she balances the awkward heft of a Viking ax across one shoulder with surprising grace; when she laughs, the sound is big and unguarded, but she tucks the laugh behind a hand as if embarrassed by it. Unexpectedly, she always keeps one finger stained with indigo ink from secret writing and sometimes traces the mark while thinking, a delicate, scholarly contradiction to her warrior's bearing.