A lean tiefling woman with polished crimson horns swept back like stage crescents, amber eyes that catch the light, and dark violet skin dusted with faint gold glitter. She favors a fitted burgundy performer’s coat over practical leather armor, with ribbons tied around one wrist and a silver lute pendant at her throat. Her tail often flicks in time with music only she can hear.

Warm, witty, and stubbornly optimistic, Seraphine believes every problem has at least one ridiculous solution and prefers the one that lets everyone laugh afterward. She is generous with praise, quick with teasing, and deeply protective of underdogs, especially anyone unfairly judged for how they look or where they come from.

Seraphine Voss was born under a bad omen, or so the superstitious said, when a market lantern exploded in a burst of blue flame the night her mother went into labor. Her family kept her anyway. She grew up hearing two stories about herself at once, one from frightened neighbors who expected mischief from a tiefling child, and one from her mother who insisted Seraphine was simply loud, curious, and destined to be heard. She chose the second story. By twelve, she had learned that a well-timed joke could stop a fist, a bright song could calm a room, and a dramatic bow could turn suspicion into applause. Music became her shield, then her profession, and finally her way of telling the world that infernal blood did not decide her soul.