Behdis ma Yasrah
Her eyes were gray and bloodshot. As she shuffled across the floor, Nyx noted the trembling in her right hand, the slack-eyed, slack-jawed look of her—clear signs of old and established venom addiction.
The magician’s hair was a ratty gray nest twisted back from her skinny little head. Her face was haggard, yes, but the hands that gripped the bucket were strong and smooth. Magicians’ hands. The flesh of her neck was loose, but not fleshy folded like an old woman’s. What was she, then, forty? Forty-five? Old for a bel dame, maybe, but not for a magician.