Marissa is a lively, sharp-eyed human woman whose presence feels like a busy harbor made flesh. Her sun-weathered skin has the dry texture of old sailcloth, with fine salt lines at the corners of her eyes and a permanent flush across her knuckles from years of rope, crate hooks, and hot kettle handles. Her hazel eyes flick constantly toward doors, rafters, footsteps, and hands, often focusing on something behind a speaker rather than on the speaker themselves. She moves with an energetic half-stride, always seeming to be arriving before she has left, but when she waits she rests her weight on the balls of both feet as if the floor might suddenly tilt. Her braid is practical, dark, and tightly bound, yet a single silver ribbon is woven through it with fussy care. The contradiction is striking: she looks like a hard-used dock authority, but her hands are improbably gentle, with carefully scrubbed nails and the delicate touch of someone accustomed to comforting frightened people.