A weather-scoured selkie with the look of a dock pilings survivor, Merrow Vane moves with the careful economy of someone who has spilled enough blood to stop wasting motion. Their salt-gray skin is roughened like cured leather at the knuckles and along the cheekbones, and their hair hangs in black, ropey waves shot through with pale sea-foam strands that never seem fully dry. One eye is dark green and sharp as bottle glass, while the other is clouded white from an old knife wound, giving them a permanent half-assessing stare. They are broad through the shoulders but folded inward at the chest, as if bracing against a wind only they can feel. Their apron is patched from sailcloth and old velvet, absurdly embroidered with tiny gold stars on the hem, a stubborn bit of elegance from a better age. When they laugh, it is brief and dry, like a match struck in a wet room. They smell faintly of smoke, pepper, and tarred rope.