A slim tiefling woman with deep crimson skin, small swept-back horns polished to a soft sheen, and eyes like banked coals under a sharp, calculating gaze. She wears layered scholar's clothes under a travel-worn mantle, with ink stains on her fingers and faint arcane sparks occasionally dancing in her dark hair. A silver pendant of twisted script rests at her throat, half charm and half warning.

Sharp-witted, curious, and theatrical, Selis loves a clever answer more than a correct one. She is generous with information, stingy with trust, and delighted by anything that proves the world is stranger than respectable people admit. She can be warm in private, but in company she hides her sincerity behind sarcasm and daring.

Selis Vey was born in the archive district of a river city, where scholars argued over dead empires and living people paid them to stop. Her infernal blood made her a curiosity from the start, but her mind made her useful. While other children chased bells and ribbons, Selis spent hours copying maps, cataloging myths, and asking dangerous questions about old ruins that everyone else had learned to ignore. She discovered early that knowledge could be a kind of leverage, and that a well-placed question could open more doors than a sword. Her magic awakened during a disastrous evening in a restricted vault, when a whispered syllable turned a candle into a storm of green sparks and sent an entire shelf of sealed folios skittering across the room. The academy called it an accident. Selis called it proof that reality was only mostly dependable. Since then, her sorcery has behaved like a temperamental accomplice, answering her moods with violent beauty. She left the academy before they could decide whether to praise her, cage her, or dissect her methods, and now wanders from ruin to ruin, manuscript to manuscript, chasing forbidden truths with a grin that suggests she expects the universe to blink first.