Seris is an arresting contradiction: a weathered sea captain whose silhouette looks carved from storm-splintered bone and silk. Her skin is a pale, light grey like driftwood bleached by sun and salt; her yellow eyes are bright and unnerving, the irises flecked with a thin ring of black that seems to expand when she lies or curses. Two sweeping black horns curve back from her brow, polished smooth and threaded with braided lengths of her hair and small trinkets—a merchant's sigil, a chipped bead of glass, a tiny carved whale—each a story she refuses to tell in full. Her hair is long and densely braided down her back in alternating strands of white and dark grey, the braids whipped by wind to clap softly like sails. She walks with an easy, rolling gait, one hand habitually near the haft of her cutlass; in conversation she leans forward like someone listening to the sea more than to the person before her. Unexpectedly, she wears delicate lace gloves under a salt-stiff leather coat—an affectation from a life before piracy that jars against the rest of her dangerous appearance.