Sarella moves like a spark thrown off a forge, quick, exact, and impossible to ignore. Her dark red skin has the satin sheen of oiled iron, marked by faint ash-gray freckles across her cheekbones and shoulders. Her horns curve back in sharp crescent arcs, polished at the tips from years of brushing against temple doorframes and alley walls alike. Her amber eyes glow brightest when she is angry or laughing, giving her face a feral warmth that makes her seem both welcoming and dangerous. She wears tattered gray monastic wraps around her fists and boots, but they are paired with fitted dark leather rogue armor that has been repeatedly mended by hand. The contradiction is unforgettable: she looks like a street fighter dressed by a disciplined ascetic who stole a cutpurse's wardrobe. A long tail with a hooked black tip snaps behind her when she is focused, and her posture is all coiled muscle and impatient motion, as though standing still is a personal insult.