Serethiel moves like someone used to being watched: fluid, deliberate steps timed with a faint hum under her breath. Her skin has a warm, embered tone that seems to catch light like coal; the surface is smooth except where a thin, silver-white scar traces from her left temple into the hairline. She wears a narrow circlet of hammered brass that catches magnificently when she throws her head back while laughing. Her horns are swept low and backwards, polished to a dark sheen; a single woven ribbon of midnight-blue leather is braided through the left horn with tiny bells that jingle once every few gestures — intentionally, she claims, as punctuation. When standing still she carries the air of a street performer sizing up a crowd; when she plays she becomes both larger and unexpectedly delicate, plucking with callused fingertips. Unexpectedly, she favors soft, woolen gloves even in warm weather — the fingers are cut away so she can play, but the palms are padded, an odd contradiction of tactile caution and theatrical exposure.