Marlowe moves with a confident, deliberate grace, his broad shoulders rarely betraying the swift precision of his reflexes. His skin is weathered and smudged from ink and grease, traces of his years working a printing press, yet his fingers are unexpectedly nimble. His dark brown hair curls loosely and is often tousled, a contrast to the sharp, bright steel-blue eyes that scan crowds with calculating amusement. A faint smudge of flour sometimes clings to his collar or hands — a nod to his secret sweet tooth and habit of pilfering pastries. On his right forearm, a tattoo of a quill entwined by a stylized serpent in black ink curls from wrist to elbow, an unusual emblem for a man of the streets. His usual smirk lingers even in moments of tension, making him seem approachable yet untrustworthy.