Witley appears as a woman of indeterminate middle age with an otherworldly polish. She carries herself like the last graceful ripple of a curtain, every motion measured and composed. Her skin has a soft porcelain sheen that seems to reflect light like a mirror rather than absorb it. Her blonde hair is long, honey bright, and arranged in loose, deliberate tangles threaded with tiny sapphire beads and a single hair tassel tied to an obsidian mirror at her hip. When she moves her hair catches the light and throws tiny blue sparks like scattered stars. Her eyes are a startling robin egg blue with vertical slits that widen when amused. She wears a tailored robe of deep sapphire silk that clings to her shoulders then flares into translucent panels that ripple as if underwater. Around her shoulders rests a ghostly fox pelt that never sheds but sometimes shifts to show a second set of eyes along the shoulder blades. Unexpectedly she often carries a small, battered tavern mug in which she sometimes sips air instead of drink with the serenity of a monk meditating. The overall impression is equal parts courtly noble and stage illusionist.