Sergan moves like someone who has practiced the same polite bow a thousand times and still tweaks it to fit the mood. He is always slightly polished, as if the day's salt and smoke have been sanded from his cuffs. Small brass filigree tattoos trace the veins of his forearms, only visible when he rolls his sleeves. He favors fitted cloaks that flare at the shoulders so his silhouette reads as composed from far away. Unexpectedly, his left eye has a faintly translucent lens of glass inset at the corner, and when he smiles the lens catches light like a tiny sundial. In motion he is deliberate and almost musical; when worried he hums an inaudible metronome under his breath.