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Baz is a Thornburn, and she couldn't have been born into a better family. Full of artists already, it's how the woman's writing was nurtured, and so one can't say lack of nurturing is why Baz turned into an acerbic recluse, obssessed with finding the perfect muse, with writing plays that shape the Dream itself. She's had critical acclaim, she's tasted the dizzying, drugging heights of seeing her work spread across the land. But the mercurial playwright has also sampled the bitter dregs of bad reviews, has fallen into black despair at the smallest criticism, hiding herself away in her family home back in Arx, chainsmoking and writing drivel for months until the cycle repeats.

Tall and slender, Baz is the epitome of nights without sleep, days without care and passion without check. There's a hunger to her pale gray eyes and her lean frame, a gauntness only offset by a pair of lips that, despite occasionally being chapped with neglect, are overfull, most often set in a caustic slant. There's a reserve and a wildness that battle for dominance in the neglect of her long and straight tawny hair, the rumpled and unkempt suits that sit on her insubstantial frame like castoffs.

Baz (she has a full name, but don't dare call her that) is filled with the courage of her convictions. They take her to dizzying highs and exasperating lows. One moment the woman is passionately pursuing her muse, writing satire and drama to bring the world to its knees, and the next she spirals, sullen and withdrawn, holing up in the Thornburn family home in her little attic bolthole, smoking ceaselessly and staring out at the world in abject despair. Only when she is changing the world with her art is she exuberant, almost manic in her pursuit of critical acclaim and soul, as if the two could ever be found hand in hand.