Maris moves like someone who learned to disappear in plain sight: a loose, sinuous walk that can harden into sudden, precise motion. Her clothes look layered by habit rather than fashion—oil-darkened linen under a faded teal waistcoat, cuffed sleeves, and a leather sash littered with hidden pockets. She wears mismatched mismatched rings on most fingers, one braided ribbon of river-reed tied to her wrist. Her smile is quick, but often measured, and her eyes frequently flick to exits and rooftops. An unexpected detail: she chews on the blunt stem of a clay pipe when nervous, though she never actually lights it.