Marn Vell looks like a person assembled from careful bargains and old weather. Their skin is warm bronze with faint silver scars along the knuckles, as if every handshake has left a mark. They move with a measured, sliding grace, never quite rushing, even when alarmed, and their hands seem to know the shape of every object before they touch it. A patchwork cloak of deep teal wool and waxed leather hangs from one shoulder, but beneath it they wear immaculate cuffs embroidered with tiny golden moths, elegant enough for a noble salon. The contradiction is immediate: their left boot is a mud-caked dock boot, while the right is a polished court shoe with a snapped heel wrapped in twine. They smell faintly of cedar, pepper, and lamp oil, like a counting room built inside a spice market.