Anya Valencia

A Sidhe Lady, capital S and capital L; a sculpture of porcelain and ice and the dark between stars, too fine to exist. She wears black, always; a black velvet gown, sleeves trailing a flare of lace. A black cloak, trimmed with ermine like a spray of sea-foam where her hair falls across the collar with the gloss of a crashing winter wave. Impossibly beautiful, impossibly aloof; her eyes are almost colorlessly pale within a rim of darker blue, clinically disinterested beneath a frame of long dark lashes.