Seraph moves with the measured pace of someone who has read every book in a library twice. He is tall and lithe, with skin like softly polished ivory that seems to faintly pulse under lamplight. His hair falls in a curtain of ash brown threads tipped with faint gold that catches light when he inclines his head. When he walks, loose pages sometimes whisper out of his robes and hang behind him for a moment as if unwilling to be left. His eyes are a peculiar stormy grey with small flecks of gold like pinpricks of dawn. Unexpectedly, the inner hems of his sleeves are woven with battered soldier's banners sewn into a quiet quilt, a contradiction to his pacifist bearing that marks old debts and promises kept. When he is thinking he folds his fingertips together, and when he is worried he tends to hum under his breath in an old hymn nobody else remembers.