Nephis, the genius of Intis, stood quietly upon the thick branch of a tall tree with bark as pale as snow and leaves that shimmered in a deep orange hue — like flames frozen mid-sway. Cloaked by a spell of veiling, the wind passed through her illusion as if she were no more than a whisper in the woods.
Her black hair, long and unbound, cascaded down her shoulders in dark waves, a stark contrast against the snowfall clinging to the boughs around her.
Yet even the cold dared not touch her skin. She was adorned in a regal gown of deep midnight velvet, the fabric clinging elegantly to her form, drawn tightly with a lattice of crimson threading across the bodice.
Golden embroidery — intricate as arcane glyphs, crowned the neckline and trickled like frost-laced ivy toward her waist.
An over-cloak of burnt orange silk, woven with silver filigree, draped across her shoulders like the fiery remnants of autumn.
