Baroness Nivarra stands nearly six feet tall, her posture unyieldingly upright as if sculpted from marble. Her pale, moonstone skin is subtly veined in living crimson, like fine marble suffused with blood. When she moves, it is with perfect economy, as if her every gesture was choreographed – yet, at rest, she appears so utterly motionless that unobservant guests might mistake her for a statue. Her ruby-garnet eyes are deep and hungry, catching the light as if wine had pooled within them. Her lips are full, usually painted a deep, impossible red, almost black at the core. Each time she speaks, long coiling shadows and crimson silks weave about her, whispering like a restless wind. Her fingers are elegantly long, yet an unexpected cluster of old, faint scars mars her left palm. Despite her vampiric chill, she wears silver jewelry—blessed and purified by ancient rites—that should, by all rights, burn her flesh, yet she wears them without pain.