She looks like a young woman in the bloom of life yet carries the slow composure of centuries. Curly black hair falls in glossy coils that catch light with a faint blue sheen. Her skin is the pale, warm tone of someone who spends long hours indoors; not corpse-white, but like a marble statue polished with olive oil. Her red eyes are a deep garnet when calm and almost liquid rubies when she smiles or opens a spell. Her movements are graceful and deliberate, like a dancer who never wastes effort. Unexpectedly, she habitually curls the tip of her left pinky when thinking, and the pinky is stained faintly with old, rust-colored marks that never wash away. When walking she favors a slightly lopsided rhythm that makes her shadow seem to lag behind her for a heartbeat.