Ionol Aespher. Hag of Khaine. Hag, of course, does not refer to being withered or age. It is a station, a status. An elder of the Brides of Khaine, the priestesses who dedicate themselves to the God of Murder. She has bathed in the Cauldron of Blood, assuring her youth and beauty eternal. Though she looks barely more than a few decades old- a teenager by Elven standards- she has lived centuries in the service of Khaine, and in the service of Slaneesh, as part of Morathi's secret Cult of Pleasure. This is what brings her to the Hoards of Chaos, seeking to forge alliances and deals and finally bring the Dark Elves truly into Chaos' fold.

Height: 6'2"
Weight: 160lbs
Hair: Black
Eyes: Violet
Marks: Tattooed

Description: Even among elves, Ionol is tall and whip thin. The Brides of Khaine of warrior priestesses and the training shows on her body. Not a scrap of fat or loose flesh is to be found. Her soft, youthful skin hugs tight across muscle crafted by decades of hedonistic dances and terrifying combat training- to mention nothing of what the Witch Elves do in the night that sends their screams through the black spires. Veins run visible across her stomach and biceps, just barely hidden beneath her pale skin.

And most of her skin is visible. It is difficult to tell what on her is a twisting, maddening tattoo, and what is a bit of leather that gives her the least touch of modesty. The two blend together smoothly. The black clothing so bare one would have to touch her to discover which was flesh.

Touching Ionol, though, looks dangerous. It's the smirk on her lips. Or perhaps the set of gleaming, ebony fishhooks through the ears that rise above her head. Or the thorns threaded through her eyebrows. Barbells run up her spine, each one a thin needle of black glass. On rare occasion blood weeps from one or more of these wounds. Similar spikes of black glass lance her tongue every few inches- a remarkable feat, considering her tongue may slip from her lips and twist around every inch of her body like a toga with many more feet to spare.

That danger stems, in part, from the effects of the rituals of the God of Pleasure. The most distinct of these are her arms- all six of them. Each set extending from her sides, fanning out, each a perfect mirror of the pair above. Or below. Or both. The only exception to this the lowest arm on her left side. Rather than tempting flesh, it glistens with black chiton. A demonette's claw ending in fierce razors ready to snap. A pair of tails, ending in wicked barbed piercings, twist together behind her.