Saerun moves like a man used to giving and taking blows: economy of motion, hips always slightly angled as if balancing a blade. He wears a short cropped coat of soot-dark leather over armor, the collar stained with a permanent crescent of ash. His horns sweep back in a worn, ringed curve—one horn nicked mid-shaft where a dueling blade glanced and never fully healed. A faint lattice of pale scars maps his throat and clavicle; the right side of his face bears a ghostly white streak that runs from temple to jaw, where arcane flame once licked him. When he stands in sunlight you first notice the way the heat seems to shimmer a hair-width around him, as if the air remembers the embers that birthed him. Unexpectedly, his left hand is always soot-smudged but pristine; the fingertips look like they've never lost their ash despite frequent washing. He favors small flourishes: a slow twist of his cloak's hem when thinking, a habit of tapping a finger against the pommel of his sword twice before answering. Up close his expression is oddly gentle; from afar he reads as an unsmiling sentinel.