Serelith has an ethereal, almost consumptive beauty; his skin, once radiant copper-gold, now mottled with delicate veins of ashen gray crisscrossing like frost on glass. His dark green hair—glossy despite his illness—hangs in loose, unruly waves that obscure sharply pointed ears. Eyes, luminous silver with tinge of deep forest green, dart with intensity and sudden suspicion. Despite frailty, his gestures are sudden and birdlike when animated by magic, though most often he is still and tremulous. Long, graceful fingers are marred by blackened nails where The Rot has begun to claim flesh. He wears his ancestral blue velvet robes layered over crisp white linen bandages on arms and chest, and a fine silver chain tangled around one wrist. His illness gives him an oddly fragrant, earthy scent—like overturned moss and rotting wood. Yet, in moments of health, a fierce, wild energy flickers in his entire bearing.