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The reminders of ages long-since past, Sumias is at best small, at worst a dervish. Foul-mouthed and fast-tempered, she is of a frightening intelligence. Nothing looking that white and pure should be that cruel and ill-tempered. Sumias was out to stop the world. Or kill it trying.

At the end of the day, when all the world had fallen into sleep, Sumias roused herself from the inked depths of slumber. Like demon's ichor, she poured herself across the forest, in search of things best left unseen, unearthed. It was not as such that Sumias had no sense - she had plenty. Too much, perhaps. No, it was just that Sumias needed to know. There were secrets that had not yet been discovered, and it was the way of intelligent things to oft meddle in things they had no business.

When she was up and about, she rarely stopped. Over and over, bit by bit, she explored every nook, every cranny. Every stone was overturned by the blunted end of antlers, to find the insects that went scurrying about before the white-moon's light, making her a bobbing bit of first winter's snow, before it's been marred and sullied by the slush and the mud.

She did not go loudly; in fact, except when directly speaking to someone, Sumias does not make a sound. Not one: no branches, no leaves crackle beneath her hooves. Her horns scrape no bark. To the ears, Sumias does not exist. Her breath is never loud, her heart never races in her breast.

[=#8f6767]There is something terrible about Sumias. It is not in her size - she of such diminutive stature that she is hardly a threat in that regard. Neither is it in her color - she does not have a pelt of rot, nor a face of skull. Perhaps one could argue that there is something in her voice that is disturbing.