A three-quarter poised figure, shoulders angled as if ready to pivot mid-step. Maris wears a fitted half-cuirass that catches the light in thin ribbons, layered over a weather-stained crimson tunic whose sleeves are rolled unevenly — one pinned by a leather strap, the other left loose to show the pale, faded tattoo spiraling down her forearm. Her stance is graceful but economical: small weight on the balls of her feet, hips slightly twisted, head steady. She favors a long, slightly curved cavalry blade held near the hilt in her right hand and a compact wheellock pistol strapped low on her left hip. Her hair is chopped into a blunt bob with a long, rebellious forelock that refuses to be tucked; a practical braid of blue cord is woven into it, representing her cutter's crew. When she moves, metal murmurs (gear, rings) and the soft thud of leather are audible — she never quite loses the sound of the sea. Unexpectedly, she wears a child-sized carved wooden charm on a chain over her cuirass — small, smoothed by years of being rubbed — an incongruous, deliberately unmilitary souvenir. Her overall impression: efficient, sea-forged elegance with a single stubborn, sentimental twitch.