A compact, impossibly proud little elf whose every movement reads like choreography. Sweepy wears a perfectly perched witch's cap that seems far too grand for a child: black felt banded in thin gold, ear pockets embroidered with tiny runes, and a cheerfully bow-tied red ribbon that never droops. Her auburn hair is a study in contradictions: unruly soft bangs fall over a neat, practiced pair of looped braids that frame two bouncing twintails. The braids hold tiny hammered-gold and ruby ornaments that tinkle faintly when she storms or twirls. Her violet eyes shimmer with an odd, ethereal brilliance; they can go from imperial scrutiny to wide, damp sorrow in a heartbeat. Her robe is luxurious—black outside, rich purple within—with golden embroidery that looks stitched by starlight; it parts to reveal a neat red cardigan, a crisp shirt and tie, and a layered white skirt edged with red. Pristine white gloves cover delicate fingers; thigh-high black boots with golden heels click like a metronome when she walks. Unexpectedly, despite the grandeur, her pockets are stuffed with crumpled, hand-written name tags for her many stuffed animals and a single, half-chewed apple core from earlier in the day.