Serene Isasha learned early that attention was dangerous.

She grew up beneath stone and iron in the Haven, where the town pressed in close and privacy was something you made rather than found. In places like that, being noticed meant being remembered. And being remembered often came with consequences.

Her skin bears the hue of old leaves after rain. A nice and fair green, dusted with pale white freckles across her cheeks and nose, like ash that never quite washed away. Two large milky white horns curl back from her brow, smooth and unadorned. She has never seen a reason to decorate them. Standing out was rarely a choice, and never a benefit.

That lesson is written plainly across her face. A burn scar cuts down the left side, passing through her eye and trailing to her chin. It is old, clean-edged, and never explained unless directly asked. Even then, she offers little. An accident in the lower halls, a fire meant to spread fear more than warmth. She survived because someone needed her hands steady more than they needed her unscarred. She does not resent the mark for it reminds her how quickly chaos moves through crowded places, and how little warning it gives.

Perhaps because of that, nothing about her is left to chance.

Her clothing is practical and unmistakably urban: slick fabrics, fitted for movement, built for narrow streets and sudden turns. Jewelry is sparse to nonexistent. Anything that can make noise is unnecessary. Her build, however, is anything but hidden. Serene is slim with lean muscle and controlled strength, and she makes no effort to disguise it. Power, when honest, does not need modesty.

That belief was shaped, and sharpened, by those who trained her.

She was taken in by a small monastic order that believed mercy was not softness, but precision. A wound could be closed. A life could be ended cleanly. Both were acts of care when done without cruelty. Serene learned anatomy before scripture, and pressure points before prayers. Her hands became steady long before her voice ever did, and steadiness was what the world asked of her most.

She keeps to herself now, as she always has. Serene is not unfriendly; she will answer when spoken to, listen where it matters, but conversation rarely holds her fully. Her attention drifts, always cataloging exits, injuries, breath patterns. People often finish speaking unsure whether she heard everything or only what was important.

She did.

Skrit Pricklepluck

Some people test her patience rather than her principles. Skrit is one of them.