From the waist up she is a sculpted portrait of aristocratic beauty: high cheekbones, a sharp, aquiline nose, and a perpetual half-smile that reads as both invitation and appraisal. Her skin is smooth and tanned; a thin, deliberate streak of red makeup frames her golden, vertical-pupiled eyes. When she channels magic those pupils glow like molten coin. Her hair is long and glossy, often piled in an asymmetrical cascade of braids and loose locks studded with tiny charms and keys. From the waist down a broad, gleaming scaled tail the color of old brass replaces legs — wide enough to ripple carpets into slow waves when she coils and to send velvet rugs shivering across a room. She moves with a sinuous, measured grace; a courteous bow becomes a ripple through the tail. The unexpected: despite her decadence, when she walks the quieter back corridors of her vault-network she often wears inexpensive wool gloves, thumb-hole and worn at the seams, as if to hide fingerprints or comfort herself. She favors garments cut to show the line where her torso meets her tail, balanced by dramatic, asymmetrical collars and sleeves. Her overall impression is of danger wrapped in silk and gilt.