Marra Vey has the broad, steady presence of someone who has spent decades lifting kegs and listening to other people's troubles. Her crimson-brown skin has a fine, velvety texture, broken by faint copper lines that glow beneath the surface whenever she lies or becomes angry. Her horns sweep backward like polished black antlers, but their tips are wrapped in tiny brass rings that chime when she turns her head. She moves with deliberate economy, never wasting a step, yet her long tail is constantly busy, nudging stools into place or curling protectively around a frightened child. Her hands are scarred, callused, and permanently scented with cloves, smoke, and orange peel. The unexpected contradiction is her smile, which is tender and almost grandmotherly, even when she is threatening someone with a broken bottle.