Rarely, if ever, is Miss Everly made up for a public appearance. Her smooth and full features implying both a hint of matronly age yet enduring youth in equal measure without ever really giving up a single detail or truth upon the matter. Her pale complexion betraying, however, a hermit-like habit of staying indoors and away from even the eternal dusk of the Indigo Sun as it shines upon Satyrine and Fartown, preserving an almost artificial contrast between such an unblemished complexion and the natural, inky darkness of her straight, black hair. A contrast that leaves an impression of almost doll-like inhumanity as she considers the details of her world with emerald eyes with a thoughtful squint or quirk of lip as she turns the object of her attention this way and that in her mind, if not physically. The result almost unnerving when combined with those hints of truer perception and understanding that imply an empathetic... if asocial soul.

Of course, one couldn't consider themselves terribly observant in the rare sightings of Miss Everly if they did not take note of the exquisite detail of her right arm. It's length no longer of flesh and bone, that crude stuff misplaced in the long abyss of memory that was the War... In it's place is a little clock work marvel from just beneath the shoulder and down ward that chimes and ticks like a music box made of fine crystal. The melody just ever so slightly at the edge of hearing. It's length composed of filigreed silver plates arranged protectively around glimpses of clock-work innards. Each plate carefully placed and bolted to overlap and interlock just so as to be ever so precise, ever so supple in motion and manipulation. The fingers slender and delicate like those of a pianist though tinged by a subtle mind for industry that lends them an air of tool like precision rather than the more artful affectations of the rest of the appendage.

Her attire in kind works to contrast that lack of make up and attention to her hair beyond the ministration of brush and gravity. Carefully pressed, laundered, and ever in a pristine state, her modesty is often enough preserved by frilled blouses, loosely laced corsets, and simple black skirts. The style almost archaic yet well within the wheel houses of the eclectic tastes of the current generation of Fartown's vislae. A silvered pocket watch always present and locked into one of the rungs of that corset, snaking it's way down into a nearly invisible pocket in the line of her skirt.

Finally, it's only those who have had a privilege of more than a passing moment with her that they notice the strangeness of her shadow. It's way and habits slowly consuming such shade that surrounds it until it warps and twists to no longer quite resemble the slim silhouette of the woman it belongs to.