A paragon of the agate, of treasure troves and splendor; a manifestation of spilled starlight and ink-covered sunshine, an enchanting whorl of galaxies and midnight.

Iolite is many, mystical things.

She stands of a modest stature upon long, effeminate legs, carrying herself with a regality that betrays years of well-honed etiquette. A woman of nobility, she is too often well-coiffed and lavishly, if not simply, presented in demeanor. The tousled silver and jet of her mane and tail are often kept in loose, flowing curls; and the opal spill of her tattooed shoulder drips like wellborn blood; down to a singular, front right hoof.

Whatever she may be, one thing is evident within the flash of her sea-blue eyes:

Iolite has played many a game before.

The plush pink of her lips is often tilted into a knowing smile and parted with a sensuality that is knowing, the well-practiced arches of her features betraying nothing but the femininity of her sloping expression. She might appear harmless—docile as a lamb—were it not for the menacing point of one long, sharpened, opaline horn from the center of her brow.

The glint of it shines like a blade. It glitters like a gem.
It makes you wonder if the sharpness in her eyes is just as deadly.

...