Zairith cuts an imposing figure, her sapphire-blue scales chased with veins of silver giving the impression of frost patterns on glass. Her horns arc back and sweep wide, carved and inlaid with tiny runes of command. Her stare is sharp—a commander’s gaze—tempered by the frequent crinkle of laughter lines at the eyes. Her armor is battered in places but meticulously repaired, and wears a white silk sash with old, faded bloodstains she refuses to wash out. Unexpectedly, she has a delicate golden hoop earring in her left ear and a subtle floral perfume lingers about her—a gift from her late wife.