She gives every impression of being a proper and very precise lady. The sharp lines of the clerical collar on her blood-red shirt are softened just enough by the tumbling cascade of her black curls to render her approachable, while the sharply owlish kohl-lined looks she directs through her feather-tipped lorgnette demand accountability and correct posture. When she turns her head, revealing her sharply aquiline profile, one might catch a glimpse of golden hoop ankh earrings, or perhaps a smile whose canine teeth are a tiny bit too pointed for comfort.
Her broad, muscular shoulders are of course decorously covered with a black lace shawl, and her black corset defines a shape that practically anticipates the presence of the hilt of the bodice dagger tucked against her chest. Her black opera gloves do not appear to interfere with the dexterity of her fingers in the slightest, whether they are concerned with the precise angle of her glasses, locating the specific page in her current black-bound book of interest, or removing the stopper from her bourbon flask.
Her jewel-scaled, broad hips narrow smoothly into a long, muscular tail, mostly black, with threads of scarlet and golden scales peppering through it like bloody gems and tiny, hopeful lanterns strewn across the night. She seats herself on her coils as if that is the only correct thing to do under any circumstances, and does so with such decorum that it is faintly embarassing to be afflicted with legs when in her company.