[ Rough draft, bear with me here. :[ ]
For her elfin, sharp-featured beauty and shapely, pear-like physique, this was no creature so consumed by divine vanity nor the dabblings and paintings of mundane accentuation. Ego was prey to a humility, so braced by a forefront of stoicism and quiet aloofness, chilling the air about her very existence. As all were, though, she was a specimen in her own right: shape and visage did well to compliment her presence: a wicked, wayward angel of sorts, on a mission just as strange and crooked. Statuesque and bereft of colour, such a creature as herself appeared equally at home lining the halls of some great palace as she did serving in it. Possessed of a wan tone -- washed out and smooth like cadaverous porcelain -- she stands as if some magicked idol, blemished only by the great, twisting horns - fierce, bronze - framing her fae-ish features, bedecked by twinkling chains and trinkets of gold. Unrestrained, inky locks are left free, tumbling in raven waves over her shoulders, rioting in whatever way the wind willed, catching light with coruscating gleams. From her back grew her wings; great, shadowy things that wisped and trailed like smoke. Turbid and opaque, they darkened what they neared, yet cast no shadow, and for their movements - hardly ever being still - their presence having little involvement in her errant, desultory floating. They teemed with a sort of dark sentience -- or worse, a sinister sapience -- of their own, with creeping pseudo-pinions exploring in frigid curls and protective sweeps about the pale woman's form.
Minimalist in attire, fashion falls second to function as cloth claimed her in swathing wrap. Contrasting countenance, dark robes billowed and flowed about her like liquid shadow; masterfully woven, but long since frayed from their hemming, the garment shifted and trailed as she walked, whispering and changing ever-so-subtly with the breeze, sending tatters into frenzied dances and mesmerising cavortings.. Patterned runeworking danced and shimmered from foot and sleeve, dimly luminescent in the dark: sinuous, snaking whorls that grew and flourished in smoking, haunting blues and faint, faded golds -- sickly and glittering like the corpselight eyes of some nocturnal beast, vanishing as quickly as they'd appear. Others reigned with a bit more permanence by the sash-like medley of belts that held her clinging, enshadowed apparel together: sigils and symbols were emblazoned into blackened leather belts and woven well into shadowy waist-sashes above the flare of her hips, macabre apostasy wrought in aged oranges and dim cinnabar, the muted colours of a dwindling sunset, joined by the occasional glint of more decorative gold, hanging in intricate, delicate webs and strands.
Exotic elegance was joined by twists of simple savagery -- long, sharpened nails, blackened at their tips like spent matchsticks clutched a weapon: a shaft, fashioned from a polished, dark stone not unlike obsidian. It trailed to a head, where a lengthy blade formed a simple spear of the thing, its crossguard shaped into a set of spread raven's wings, its barbs sharp and razor-like. The weapon shared a shine that suggested youth and parade, but there was a weathering to its edges that implies far, far more. A mask often concealed her features when such armaments were deployed -- silvery and moon-like, its featureless facade composed of nothing more than openings for her eyes, and harsh angular lines that encircled first those openings, then bled into sunken, ebony stains, dripping like running mascara down the cheeks and chin. From within she gazed outward, the pale woman's eyes nearly as dark as her wings at a glance, while in truth a rich, shadowy purple -- with a haunting, nocturnal retroreflective quality to them when caught in lower light.
This is no vessel of faith where the spurned, desperate, and damned cast their boons, and yet her work continued: atonement; deliverance offered in final breaths, less presented and more often stolen. No holy words left her grim lips, black as the darkness that enveloped her, cold as the stoicism of the grave; nor did her eyes, those dying violets, look to the skies -- no solace would be found in the heavens, hoping for blind and deaf gods to work their supposed miracles on their wayward flock.