Sarem stands with a calculated poise, long-limbed but graceful. His olive skin bears swirling geometric tattoos along his throat and collarbones—normally hidden beneath beautifully embroidered, ink-black robes with night-sky silver filigree. Though still youthful, a single streak of silver hair arcs starkly through his obsidian mane, hinting at sleepless nights and burdens beyond his years. His eyes, a piercing green flecked with amber, seem perpetually half-lidded, as if lost in thought or on the verge of laughter. His presence is equally disarming and unsettling—he moves with the quiet confidence of a dancer, but his gaze is sharp as a hawk’s. Contradictorily, a pair of battered carpenter’s gloves dangles from his sash, hinting at a practical, working past.