Rendered like an illuminated manuscript figure come to life: three-quarter view, bearded and long-haired, Marelain's face is drawn with the flat, deliberate lines of a 13th-century miniature. He wears a simple, undyed wool tunic and a short cape pinned with a brass brooch shaped like a quill; his chausses are plain linen and his poulaines taper to a modest point. Gold-leaf accents edge the hem of his cape and rim his brooch, the gold catching light as if inked onto skin. He holds a citole at a lowered angle with practiced ease—right arm relaxed downwards, plectrum between finger and thumb; left elbow bent, fingers poised on the fretted neck in an exact chord shape. His movements are small, economical and almost ceremonial, like a monk illuminating a page: hands glide with the precision of someone used to delicate tools. Unexpectedly, he keeps a thin smear of gold pigment beside his left ear at all times (a lingering mark from his family's craft), and one of his fingernails is always stained with ink. Up close his expression alternates between watchful amusement and a tired, private gravity—an entertainer who has learned to measure when to shine and when to step back into the margins.