Marra Vane looks carved from weathered timber and salt-worn rope, lean and straight-backed with the tense balance of someone who has spent years walking swaying planks. Her coat is a deep storm blue oilskin patched at the elbows with gray sailcloth, and every pocket seems to carry a different tool, token, or emergency tie. Her hands are ink-stained from maps and callused from hauling lines. One sleeve is always buttoned wrong on purpose, a habit that looks accidental until you notice she never wastes time fixing it. A thin silver throat chain holds a tiny shipwheel charm, while a contradiction of her entire life hangs from one ear: a bright coral bead that catches the light like something far too cheerful for her grim expression.