Isolde carries herself with the brittle grace of a winter frost. She is habitually found enveloped in silks the color of bruised plums and midnight. Her skin is remarkably pale, appearing almost translucent under the flickering magilight of the restaurant. She moves with a practiced, gliding gait that suggests she is floating rather than walking. The contradictory element in her appearance is her hands; despite her status, they are calloused and frequently bear faint charcoal stains on the fingertips, a mark of her clandestine map-making.