Forward as she may often be, it would be wrong to omit her intelligence, possessing a near eidetic memory and ardent love for learning. Polished to perfection, she's read every book in her vast library and more— growing keener by the day to expand her collection. Charm, whilst not exactly her forte, is not something entirely absent from her repertoire either, possessing enough to twist any situation in her favor, should she be without it. Her knowledge is a knife that has slain more than she's willing to count, serving not only as the source for many a complicated ploy, but birthplace of a limitless number of magical theorems... not a trace of it to be seen, in written form.

To no one's surprise, she is not against cutting loose those who do not make the most of the chances they are given. Zhehua, herself, does not often deny these claims, though taking pleasure in such matters is untrue. Still she makes no attempt to cleanse her hands of the sin and havoc she wreaks— a halting cry for recognition. Regardless of the real reason for this, her head is held high, undaunted by the venomous prattling of those who've caused her ire— only offering kindness when they inevitably fall to ruin.

Perhaps the only aspect she lacks entirely is humor. Pretty as her words are, jokes fall on ears that twitch, unperturbed, and a befuddled expression that have never found cheap wordplay enticing. A genuine smile, moreso a laugh, is near impossible to come by. Sparing not the slightest bit of sympathy save for few, her face is a neutral grounds... And maybe a little confused.

What little is known of her family's history that hasn't been announced to the world is tucked fiercely into the imperceptible crevices of their flawless facade, glittering half as bright as the horns that adorn their prettily painted faces.

But whispers of an infatuation with prophecies reach the ears of those lucky enough to be around a pair of loose lips at the right place, right time— else why would such a guarded lot mingle with that curious bunch of priestesses for so long?

Having come from a family with enough money to pander when civilization was finding it's legs, their business deals in a wide variety. In a world of magic, however, the market for enchanted items— trading them, in particular— is like no other. For centuries, now, this family continues to trade- with far more valuable items, and among this mix, some are even of their own making. Rarest of all are the recipes of a certain mage's making- regarding paper crafts, deadly lacerations, and the theorems to put even the most fragile objects to use.

Since Zhehua's birth, their business has only grown more prosperous than ever before, accrueing more wealth with each passing day. Be it the child's curious knack for marketing and magics combined, or the planets aligning for the family's chastity amidst the scandals that dragged down other fortuitous peoples, there is food aplenty upon their tables— and on Zhehua's table is a feast, enough to feed an army.

... People love to call her a genius, but it is a detail she consistently denies. It is no attempt to be humble, but the truth. She worked to improve their collective faults, clean up their messes. She is no gifted child, just a rich one, with ample access to a wealth of information to master anything she put her mind to.

With three withering priests serving as her only company (as well as the occasional, infuriating fourth, the woman roams the halls of a grandiose home alone, newly purchased after that first spike of wealth— her parents having surely been riding a high at the time. She studies, and practises, and employs. Often, she will host meetings, occasionally she will go out to attend them, but never straying far.

In that house sitting upon a hill, the neverending chill seeping into even the thickest of fabrics, she operates alone, spending her time either drowning her woes in a stream of sake, or wondering how best to protect herself from— ...?

"we must make this quick, as I've somewhere to be."

Unwilling a psychopomp as she is, duty-bound is this soul. A deal's been made, and loathe would she be to go back on her promise.

Her words are dry, and nothing about her quite rings "undeath" to you. There are no skeletal adornments, not even a trace of the infamous blacks said to drape across those who ferry the dead. A horn sprouts from her head, inscribed with silver runes that drip into a flower on her forehead, pale skin stretching, smooth and unblemished, across flesh you swear must carry some blood, still. Her hair is vibrant also, and her tail flicks impatiently, only as the living manage to be. The fabric she dons is undeniably rich in color, pastel and bright and pretty, and then you meet her eyes.

Abyssal depths stare back at you. Like being enveloped in the thickest of oils, color shines faintly in those inky black eyes, and are gone in the next instant. Where her pupils begin, it is hard to tell. And before you know it, you've crossed— effortlessly. Lulling you to sleep, at last, after what seems like an eternity of restlessness. No longer does your heart flutter, no longer does it pang... your mind comes to a stuttering halt.

She blinks, the first time, you realize, since you've met, and brings a single bird's feather to her lips, unruffled, and still carrying a slight sheen. In the next instant, she's gone.