Sarith Blackgavel manifests as a tall, severe woman whose silhouette seems cut from the edge of a storm cloud. Her skin has the texture of cold river stone, though faint red lines pulse beneath it like cracks in cooling metal. Her movements are abrupt and economical, with none of the graceful drifting commonly associated with divine beings. She walks as if every floor were a courtroom and every step were evidence. A heavy black iron gavel hangs from one hand, yet it never swings or clinks against her robes. The unexpected contradiction is her face: beneath the hard brow and scarred jaw is an almost tender expression, especially when she watches frightened children or exhausted laborers. The sight makes her look less like a goddess of punishment and more like someone who has spent too long pretending not to care.