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Even her muzzle is long and lean, clad in the dark, unreflective green of a winter's forest; she's a lithe dragonet with a single lustrous racing stripe down each side, a paler, glossy hue that underscores her sudden, strong movements and the racer's slant of her thin-boned physique. Further ripples, as glossy but less pale, flow down her wingsails, closer and closer together as they reach their trailing edges. Sharply defined neckridges are wholly dark again, the same onyx as her perennially-chipped claws, spaced in a way that seems less irregular than a pattern as yet undiscerned. Within all that darkness, her eyes glow that much more, holding nothing of artifice and everything of fearless, no-holds-barred conviction.