Marla moves like a river that has cut stone — steady, inevitable. She favors a deep-set leather jerkin scarred where blade and thorn once met it; on damp mornings a faint trace of oil and salt scent clings to her. Her favored spear is never slung pompously but held with the casual certainty of someone who trusts its reach more than their welcome. A faded blue-gray cloak with the town mark of Glencross drapes over one shoulder, its inner hem mended with different scraps — a sign of long service rather than carelessness. Up close, a hairline burn across her left jaw and a small, old iron ring permanently set in the webbing of her right thumb (from tipping a fallen watch beacon back into place) catch the eye. Contradiction follows her: her face is stern and hard-lined, but her hands are small and quick, used to braiding children's hair at festival moments and bandaging patrols as easily as wielding a spear.