There is a sudden presence in the air before you, and seeming from between two shadows, the woman on horseback emerges, the tall, heavy, black skinned and flame- maned horse lighting the area, the hounds flanking and covering it, the lady herself- as she looks at all of you, it is terribly obvious that all your estimates are dangerously, pofoundly wrong.
Physically, she's a large, strong woman- at or beyond the upper limits for a normal human being, which she may no longer be- but that's not the important part, that is what shines through it.
The poise, presence, and yet almost translucence, the body merely a vessel, a hammer in the hands of her own will, it is possible to see how she managed to convince thousands of mutually hostile maniacs to unite their differences and follow her- both much worse and far better than they could ever hope to be on their own.
Red- violet eyes, impossibly sharp- the gift that Larric has a small touch of, Rohal in greater measure, she has to the last degree. She looks into you, through you all, reads, grasps everything- surface thoughts the least of it; after a mere moment, she knows you, physical, mental, moral drives and limits, strengths and weaknesses- no wonder she's always a move, a dozen moves, ahead.
It doesn't hurt, but it does chill and dislocate, and arguably violate; but what would that gift do, to someone still in the process of growing into an adult? Most thaumaturges come into their talents- they congeal- some time between late youth and adulthood, about the second half of growing up. A terrifying time to suddenly have the head of everyone around you laid open, to have to deal with, understand all of that, to try to be a self in the middle of it all.
What emerged from the process is this almost incandescently driven woman, for whom boundaries scarcely exist; evil- by some definitions, yes, including some that she probably shares. Unable to turn back, definitely, and probably also by temperament unwilling- what does she see when she looks at herself?
It may be as well that you cannot return the favour. She's probably- hopefully- much better grounded in herself, but the faintly fire- illuminated trail of spectres that hover behind her will never leave her now, and only grow longer with time and chance.
'You were looking for me? I am as alone as you will ever find me, myself, my literal and metaphorical ghosts and demons...what do you dare to want?'
The only purpose in my still being here is the stories and the people who come to read them. About all else, I no longer care.