Seralyn moves like someone who grew up between moonlight and market squares. Her gait is light and precise, as if every step has been practiced in a dancer's studio and a diplomat's hall. Her skin catches light faintly with a pearlescent sheen. She wears her hair partially braided into thin silver cords that tangle with tiny bells carved from mother of pearl. Her left sleeve is always rolled to reveal a lattice of faint silvery tattoos that shift color with her mood. Unexpectedly she carries an old, mud-splattered leather courier satchel slung across the front of her chest as if she still delivers letters herself on occasion.