Florence Holloway’s frame is lean, built for precision and violence, though her movements carry a weary grace. Veins of tar-black scar her pale skin. Her mechanical wings, jut from her back with sharp, bone-like edges, move with the fluidity of something alive. Blonde hair, tangled, frames her face. She is serious, rude, cold, closed off at first, but once opened up to she is caring and humorous. She’s not very expressive and doesn’t mind stepping on anyone’s toes, no matter how close she feels.