What you are allowed to see:Edit
Whispering, living shadows boil about the small frame of the one you see before you. From out of this moving darkness peer the intelligent embers of eyes that more often than not, do not notice you.
She moves slowly, her talons reaching out and touching random things as she passes in silence. Every so often she pauses, her eyes locking onto something particularly interesting to her, but then they fall away, and the slow stride continues.
Her voice is always soft, and she does not repeat herself. All time is precious, and she does not waste it on those who do not pay attention.
Her robes, alive in her power, coil darkly about a frame that trembles in the sunlight, and grows in prominence as the sun falls. Phobia was once shockingly beautiful, and is now equally terrible in death. Where her feet tread, there is ice on the stones, where her fingers trace, there is decay and ruin. She is as cursed as her enemies, and she knows it.