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Although born a Grayson, Triscali was of no special status or importance within the family. What was special about her, though, was her gift for magic, and it was on account of that gift that Triscali left her family to train as a mage with the Metallic Order. Before she could take her Name or forsake her family, circumstances called her back to the Compact, to become Queen-Regent. It turned out, she was a more powerful Queen-Regent than anyone bargained for, could not very well be controlled by the Great Houses of the Compact, and did, in fact, a great deal more controlling herself. A Queen of iron will is difficult to reckon with; a Queen of iron will AND powerful sorcery is entirely impossible. History remembers her for many things (or it would, if the Despite would allow it): for the breaking of writs in the Compact, for the wars with Cardia that followed. For her love of Macdon, and her grief at his loss. For her disdain of nobility, for her Black Rose Theatre. It remembers her, in the end, not as Queen-Regent, but as Queen -- though she left the world heirless, and gave up power of her own accord, to disappear into the annals of history (and then to disappear entirely, when that history was all but devoured).

She is the breaking dawn, in warmth and beauty, in the pale glow of first light. Her hair is rose gold, sunny, scintillant, her alaricite-fair skin kissed with morning dew. Yet, if she is the dawn, she is a winter dawn, hewn of frost -- her smiles few and sparing, her eyes, those super-saturated green eyes, piercing cold. She is a lithe and limber thing, tall and taut, like a strung bow, softened only in moments of grace -- in the sway of hip, in the coy turn of shoulder.

Triscali may look like the dawn reawakened, like the rising sun, but that's as warm as she gets. Her personality is frost and steel, cold and unbending. Still, she is a woman of deep conviction, and in moments of passion -- of inspiration -- something of that dawn is restored in her, rekindled by the spark of belief.