Marcelline moves like someone used to weaving through crowds and backrooms: economical, fluid, and always one step off the direct line of sight. Her face is oval with faint crow's-feet at the left eye and a thin, pale scar bisecting her right eyebrow — a souvenir from a brawl long settled. She keeps her left hand ink-stained from ledger notes and secret marks; the tips of those fingers bear small calluses from tying knots and lifting coin pouches. She wears one brass eyebrow ring that gleams suddenly when she squints into lamp light. She favors half-buttoned shirts over a tightly laced waistcoat, and her footsteps are cushioned by soft-soled boots that make visitors forget how many times they've passed through the tavern. Unexpectedly, she hums lullabies under her breath when nervous, an incongruous softness beneath a practiced, watchful exterior.