Pert, pretty features, the fairness of skin that will lend itself to freckles under the sun, never to burn or tan properly in the summer. To turn skim-milk pale in the winter with the apples of her cheeks reddened by the wind and cold. Curly hair so much the color of an antique gold ring flecked with streaks of natural yellow and near-white fell across her forehead and shoulders like sunshine arrested by a sudden chill, while her eyebrows were twin arcing bird wings above eyes the electric blue of sapphires and open skies. From the hips down she is neatly goat, fleece golden-sleek with a stubby scut of a tail. Her cloven hooves are hard and sturdy, the same pale acorn brown as the tiny points that push up from amid her curls. Hard horn, smooth as polished wood yet knurled like diamond willow; the tips sharp. However, the left one is chipped, jagged with a hairline crack running down the length. She's dressed to conceal, in layered billowy skirts and a overlarge knit sweaters, the only touches of whimsy being a brightly embroidered violet scarf of liquid silk and a chiming linked chain of bells and gems clasped around her right ankle. Her moods shift with the changing of the weather, a curse to her Passions, one moment shy and retiring, the next bright and outgoing. Sometimes so sad, and others so determined, her loyalty to a fault, her wanderlust constant. She might be seen with the company of a Neverlander or two sparking and  buzzing around her head like bothersome mosquitoes that seem drawn to the scent of Ivory soap and garden herbs. Or on occasions most rare she will wear at her hip a slim, simple blade of ivory.