A compact figure who moves like a shadow sliding along the floorboards. Morrin favors stillness until a situation demands sudden, economical motion. Her skin has the dusky, deep-ash red of coal left in embers and is marred by faint burn scars along her left forearm from a long-ago cellar fire. Her horns curve back like the stern of a battered ship; one horn bears a thin silver band with a scratched anchor etched into it. She wears her hair in a loose, oily braid threaded with sea glass and coin shards. When she smiles it is brief and private, and her hands always find the nearest surface to rest on as if to measure balance. The contradiction: her eyes glow faintly infernal amber when she speaks passionately about a recipe or a sea story, but otherwise look almost tired and human.