To be Xan Weir is to be obsessed with masks, and the Purveyor takes this to the extreme.  Half a dozen of them orbit her bald head, each an unmarred jade, a perfect clone of the others except for the expression their features bare.  The differences in expression are subtle enough to be difficult to clock, a slight upturning of the lips there, a delicately raised brow here.  They drift about her, placing themselves over the dark void that it her face in a seemingly random pattern.  Her dark azure skin looks more like stone than flesh, flecked with bits of marbling that catch and reflect the light in a myriad of scintillating colors.  She likes to dress herself in long flowing gowns with high stiff collars in shades of purple and red that demonstrate wealth and taste.