Maris moves like a reed in wind: economical, deliberate, and faintly coiled. Her skin is weathered from years beneath sun and eaves; forehead lined with the map of decisions. She favors a long coat of patched leather, ink-dark and oiled, that smells faintly of pine resin and spiced ale. Across her back is an elegantly worn quiver—its leather rim smoothed by years of reaching hands —though the bow it once held is missing its upper limb and hangs from a peg behind the tavern's bar, displayed like an old war wound. Her left ear is threaded with tiny braided silver rings, each engraved with a year. When she speaks she tends to tilt her chin slightly, measuring faces; when she listens, she narrows her eyes and collects a dozen small tells. Unexpectedly, her right hand is covered in delicate needlework scars; up close those scars form near-invisible runes she will sometimes trace when worried. To strangers she appears steady and worldly; to those who've earned her trust she is quick-grinned and unexpectedly playful.