Serelith moves like a dancer who has learned how to keep time with danger. She is always just a half-breath from a smile or a warning. Her horns are swept back and polished to a dull sheen; one horn bears a thin, silver band engraved with a child's name. Her skin is the color of dried pomegranate rind, faintly translucent over the knuckles, with tiny, maplike networks of darker veins at her wrists and temples. Where most tieflings have tails that swish, Serelith's tail ends in a tuft of coarse, coal-black hair that she braids into a knot when serious. Her left forearm is tattooed in wavering, inked script — a list of debts paid and promises kept — that she adds to when nights are long. She walks with a slight limp in her right hip that only appears after long days; when she is excited her limp disappears and she takes long, springing steps. Unexpectedly, she smells faintly of orange blossom and iron, as if she always keeps a bloom tucked near a bloodstain. Up close, her teeth have an unusual ridge at the incisors, a reminder of a childhood fever. Overall impression: alluring, dangerous, and weary in the same glance.