A perversion of beauty, the dark elf maiden's mouth is a plump and pink rosebud among wicked thorns. She holds it tightly in a perpetual smirk that never quite touches her eyes. Frosty violet globes shot with crimson, those eyes take the measure of all they survey when open, simultaneously heavy-lidded and probing. The rest of her proportions are just as unnatural, the fey tilt of elven ancestry warped into spindly limbs as suited to scurrying across the wall as walking across the ground, a spider surprised by sudden torch light. Sheets of silver hair fall below her shoulders, parted severely in the middle and at sharp contrast with her crow-black skin. She is tall in the manner of all elves dark and light, a paean to the cruelty of good design.