Lady Brookes was often heard before seen. The hard clack of her cane followed by the smaller clicks of her heels was idiosyncratic to her approach. Her footsteps weighted with a sense of authority; her motions intentional and precise. There was nothing physically imposing about the stately aristocrat, nor was she well versed in magic of any kind. Rather, she wielded words and influence, and her strike was as lethal as a blade.
There were hints that she was masculine in her femininity. The way that she insisted upon scotch instead of wine, for instance. On work days, she often smelled of charcoal-smoke, sweetly spiced cigars, hot metal and oil. Her voice was low, modulated, and often had a sonorous quality to it.
There was something vaguely threatening in the predatory way Scarlett carried herself. When her irritation was not openly conveyed, it could still be felt. Her leather gloves would creak as her hand tightened, or her finger would tap more audibly against the tip of her cane. Though her smile persisted, it resembled bared teeth. More than anything she was a creature of hideous pride and ambition. Pressure had made her a diamond, but it was by her design that the diamond would be set into a crown.