Selara glides into a room as if trailing the scent of rare night-blooming flowers. Her porcelain skin, cool to the touch, is marked by a thin silver filigree curling up her left forearm, visible only when caught by torchlight. Her eyes are large, strikingly mismatched—one a polished emerald green, the other deep velvet violet—though most miss this oddity amid her dazzling smile. A lush mane of midnight-black hair, carelessly artful, tumbles in loose waves down her back, accented by a single thin braid wound in silk thread of crimson. She moves smoothly, but her left hand always fidgets, absentmindedly twisting a jeweled ring. Though always impeccably dressed for court, there are faint burns and battered edges on her silk gloves, hinting at some secret misadventure.