Ilaine constantly radiates a sort of hot intensity, even at rest. Her flame-colored hair is cut short and ragged, as though chopped off in irritation simply to keep it out of her way, and her fire-orange eyes glow from within with a dull furnace gleam, like coals in the dark. She dresses in form-fitting leather—usually dyed red—and carries a whip coiled at her waist. She is given to popping and cracking her knuckles when standing idle, punching one spike-gauntleted fist into the other as though miffed to be still.

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