Marek stands like a man who has one foot on a dock and the other behind a bar: weathered, grounded, and forever ready to steady a sway. His skin is creased into sunlines around the eyes and mouth, and a thin silvery scar runs from the left temple down across his cheek — a souvenir from a boarding knife. He wears a heavy, oil-dark leather apron over a once-fine linen shirt; the apron is perpetually flecked with ale and stew and bears the burn mark of a past kitchen accident. His hair is thick and unkempt, a faded chestnut tipped with gray, usually tied back in a loose knot with a rope of braided twine; one small fishbone earring hangs from his right ear, polished smooth. Marek's movements are economical and precise: quick to pour, slower to strike. The unexpected: despite rough hands and a brusque manner, his nails are always clean, trimmed as if for opening delicate things, and he keeps a tiny carved wooden bird tied to his apron that he winds in silence when he thinks no one is watching.