Saravi has the poised, severe beauty of a statue left outdoors through many winters. She moves with almost no wasted motion, turning her whole body around the line of her saber rather than stepping around it. Her hands are the first thing most people notice: long-fingered, heavily callused across the palms, with pale metallic staining worked permanently into the creases from decades of tempering enchanted steel. She keeps her nails trimmed short and polished with clear resin, an unexpectedly vain detail beneath her practical armor. Her face is composed and elegant, but her posture has a quiet exhaustion to it, as if every joint is listening for an approaching storm. The contradictory impression is striking: she looks cold enough to freeze a room, yet she instinctively straightens crooked furniture and quietly repairs torn gloves for prisoners who cannot thank her.