A compact mountain of a dwarf who moves with the deliberate steadiness of someone who has practiced the same tasks for decades. Merrin wears a braided beard threaded with a single battered silver coin at the chin and a strip of faded blue cloth tied into the braid. His left forearm bears a lattice of thin, paler scars from when a smith's temper flare scorched him decades ago. His hands are callused and smell faintly of beer and lemon oil. He favors a short split-halberd hung behind the bar within easy reach. Unexpectedly, his apron is immaculate, folded and pressed each morning, and he polishes the brass taps three times a day even during the busiest hours.