Serra moves with the slow, sure gait of someone who once drove flocks across long hills: deliberate footfalls, shoulders squared against wind, a habit of measuring distance with her eyes before she speaks. Her face is a map of contrasts — a broad, blunt half‑orc jaw softened by a surprisingly delicate mouth that often twitches into a gambler's grin. Her skin is the faded olive of fieldworkers, freckled in places where sun and sweat have etched little moons; along her forearms the fine lanolin grease of a shepherd never fully washes away. She wears her seminary pendant (a small iron fleece on a leather thong) over a threadbare woolen shift; over that a stained, well‑repaired scale mail and a shield with the shrine's faded emblem. An unexpected detail: one finely manicured fingernail — painted silver and etched with a tiny astrological sigil — despite her backwoods hands. When she walks into a room she brings an invisible scent of sheep’s wool, incense, and stale ale. In quiet moments she often pulls a worn deck of cards from a hidden pocket and shuffles, the cards whispering like pages of a prayer book.