A tall brass-scaled dragonborn woman with polished horn ridges, amber eyes, and a calm, assessing stare. She wears pale scale mail beneath a tailored noble cloak, carries a shield marked with a simple holy emblem, and keeps her claws impeccably clean. Her fine clothes are carefully maintained even when worn under armor, as if dignity itself were part of her faith.

Seris is calm, exacting, and quietly compassionate. She does not waste words, but when she commits to someone, she becomes immovably reliable. She prefers practical solutions over grand speeches and has a habit of evaluating every room for exits, injuries, and social hierarchies before she relaxes.

Seris Thrax was born to a minor dragonborn house that believed status should be proven through duty, not indulgence. She grew up among ledgers, dueling tutors, and diplomatic dinners, learning early that a noble name could open doors, but could also trap a person behind them. While her siblings chased inheritance and ceremony, Seris found herself drawn to the small, practical acts that kept a household, and a city, alive. When a plague moved through the lower wards of her ancestral city, she spent more time with shrine priests and healers than with courtiers, and discovered that mercy could be as disciplined as any code of honor. That conviction led her to the temple, where she was accepted as a cleric despite her courtly upbringing. Now Seris serves a god whose teachings emphasize stewardship, healing, and order, though she interprets those virtues in a measured, almost secular way. She is not fanatically devout, nor especially warm, but she believes every life has a weight that must be accounted for honestly. She travels because her house expected a decorative heir and received a woman who would rather mend a wound than host a banquet. The road has become her proving ground, where she can test whether responsibility is still noble when no one is watching.