Seressa Vane looks carved rather than born, all narrow angles and deliberate lines, with a stillness that feels practiced rather than peaceful. Her skin is pale and wax-smooth, as if candlelight has lived on it too long, while her black hair has been shorn into a severe halo of uneven lengths that never quite settles, always catching on the collar of her vestments. One side of her face is veiled by a translucent strip of prayer gauze, not from injury alone but from habit, as though she refuses the world a full accounting of herself. Her hands are elegant and long-fingered, but the knuckles are scarred and stained with old incense and sealing wax. She moves like a judge crossing a flooded aisle, precise and weightless, yet her boots are thick with practical mud and travel grime, a contradictory hint that she still walks the world she claims to sanctify. The overall impression is of a woman trying to become a monument, and failing in a way that makes her more frightening.