With blue-black eyes and a magnetic pull, Ilde wards off those familiar enough with the fae to be wary of tangling with them- she's still too new to what she is for it to be more certainty than attitude, but she is at least getting very good at the latter. Fey and sudden and unholy, like the poem; she moves like she's in control here, lacing her fingers through Ivan's.

Her hearing is a blessing and a curse in this place. On the one hand, the ambient noise doesn't bother her, doesn't inconvenience conversations when she's watching mouths and not listening, and then again on the other hand she doesn't hear what's said when she isn't looking. She misses half of the approach Ivan receives, though when she glances in that direction she dismisses the other half as not what she came here for, concentrating on peeling apart the different signatures of magic per breed. The dead space of those that aren't inherently magical in nature, those ones are strange-