Lysa Corwin is a broad, sturdy halfling woman whose presence fills a room more completely than her height suggests. Her hands are thick-knuckled and permanently reddened from years of washing tankards, kneading dough, and lifting full casks. A blue scarf is always tied around her neck, its fabric faded at the edges and soft with repeated repairs. A pale burn mark runs from her left wrist nearly to her elbow, puckered like melted wax. Her gray-brown hair is braided close to her scalp, while her sharp green eyes make customers feel that their excuses have arrived before they have. She moves with a deliberate, rolling stride, never hurried, yet somehow always appearing beside the person who is about to cause trouble. The unexpected contradiction is her smile, which is warm, almost grandmotherly, even when she is quietly threatening to break someone's fingers.