Maris moves like a slow river through reeds. She is usually seated or leaning against a carved pillar of rootwood, shoulders rounded but steady. Her face is a map of fine lines and pale lichen-freckles, skin creased where wind and sun have traced a life lived outdoors. Her left cheek bears a pale crescent scar shaped like an autumn leaf. She wears a crown of woven hollow twigs and dried moss that hums faintly when she concentrates. Unexpectedly, one of her fingers is tipped with a tiny silver ring that holds a polished piece of mirror glass, a human trinket that flashes with city light when she gestures toward settlements. Her movement is deliberate; when she reaches for something she does so as if coaxing a reluctant root.