Like smoke, she is soft and approaches quietly. Like smoke, her coloring is a study in gray; when her muscles flinch, stipples of silver flutter across her back – when she rests charcoal shadows steal across her shoulders and flanks.
Her sleep is a haze of laudanum and lavender – a shadowy land where its feline mistress walks through history and literature, reliving her myriad tributes. Occasionally she will emit a tiny growl, as if she were speaking with her ancestors, towering over her in dreaming grasslands.
When she is awake, her face is alert, with lines that are pure and delicate. Her bones are small and precise; their fineness creating an expression full of subtlety and grace: the look of a true lady. Her golden eyes hold memories of the gilded taxes buried inside of pyramids, of homages carved into arched and sinuous icons. Like all cats she possesses a countenance that merges patience with disgust and an inexorable curiosity. She will watch a bird for hours but look at a human only in passing.
As would befit her Russian background, her coat is marbled with an undercurrent of blue, and the pads she walks on are velvety and amethyst-tinted. On her many explorations she is a silent traveler: a cloud the color of rain, searching for new horizons.
Her voice is a tiny song, ornamental and feminine. The dainty sound escapes through her teeth in a filigree of music, atonal and elegant. Each note is as curved and elongated as the shadowy panther from which it came.
She is a domestic, but with a ferocity that lingers in the wayward claw or tooth. Her violent past lingers in her blood – a river which has calmed over the centuries, but which still is pulled towards a feral tide.
Like every cat, she is serene and independent. Various insights wrestle for her attention, memories of her past, acceptance of her present. It is no surprise, therefore, that she often is daydreaming. She has much to think about.