Maela Voss has the weathered, capable look of someone who has spent half her life hauling barrels and the other half carrying secrets. Her face is broad and sun-browned, with fine lines gathered around one sharp gray eye and one cloudy eye that never quite focuses on the same point as the other. Her hands are heavily callused, but her movements are unexpectedly delicate when she pours a drink or folds a napkin. She walks with a slight limp, yet can cross a crowded room without making a single chair scrape. She leaves people with the impression of a warm hearth watched by a wolf. The contradictory detail is her immaculate silver fingernails, polished every morning despite the permanent smell of ale, smoke, and iron clinging to her skin.