Lady Mlava possesses a grace that seems disconnected from the physical world. Her late thirties are marked by deep-set, intelligent eyes and a cascade of dark hair heavily streaked with silver. She wears layered robes of deep violet silk that rustle like dry leaves when she moves. Her most striking contradiction is her hands; despite her regal stature, her fingers are perpetually stained with black ink and charcoal. She moves with a slow, deliberate cadence, often stopping mid-step as if catching a scent or a fading thought. Her gaze is often fixed on a point three inches behind whoever is speaking to her.