Serah Lindale is the sort of beauty people notice only after they have already been paying attention. She stands 5'9" with a poised, economical grace, every movement measured as if the air itself were part of an inventory she keeps in order. Her figure is slender and toned from long hours of pacing halls, climbing archive stairs, and carrying ledgers rather than from any courtly vanity. Her ash-blonde hair is usually braided into a flawless plait over one shoulder, yet a few softer strands escape near her temples and make her sharp face seem unexpectedly human. Her eyes are a cool jade green that miss almost nothing. When she is annoyed, they go almost glassy; when she is moved, they seem warmer than they have any right to be. She wears fitted charcoal robes edged in silver runes, tailored so perfectly that they look more like a uniform of command than clothing. Thin spectacles rest low on her nose while she works, and she smells faintly of parchment, lavender, cold stone, and lamp oil. A silver rune is tattooed behind her left ear, and a narrow scar crosses her right wrist. The most contradictory thing about her is the tiny, almost childish ribbon she sometimes ties around a stack of files, as if she is secretly trying to make bureaucracy charming.