Despite her slight, slim-hipped figure, Lyra has a commanding, almost military carriage. She has honey-brown hair that falls straight and true in a smooth sheet. Her straight bangs cut a precise line above sharp tawny-gold eyes, only somewhat softened by a yielding curve to plush lips. Pale, spectacled (with great round wire-rimmed abominations, no less), she would seem bookish, if not for an uncanny deft briskness.
She prefers simple, modern, unprissy clothes of the highest quality material. Austere white slips, classic and timelessly fresh, compose half her wardrobe; the other half is her collection of trim fitted blazers (she adores the two-tone elbow patch). She switches up her low heeled sandals and occasional earrings, subtle outlets for a bit of daily decorative flaire.
Lyra is proud, cold-blooded, efficient, and ruthless. Amoral in her Machiavellian way, she prioritizes success and achievement over niceties. While not cruel, she is aloof, cynical (even nihilistic) and exercises a Kantian decision calculus. Stubbornness and arrogance, however, cloud her good sense more often than she will admit.
Contemptuous of those who flaunt their naive values, Lyra is driven to break them and bare the ugliness of their humanity, if only to prove that there are no black and white absolutes. Regularly brusque, sometimes harsh, and always direct, she considers herself truly impartial, her judgement unbiased by morals. Love, loyalty, piety are all fictitious bonds that dissolve under sufficient pressure. Everything beautiful or sacred is temporal, and mortality is the greatest witness to that.
Primarily self-serving, Lyra is quick to grasp nuances and dismissive of anyone who cannot keep up. She is nobody’s keeper, and she will not stand to be ordered around. Having seen the most sordid truths and grandest lies, no external opinion or influence can impact her. She knows the darkest evils of which humankind is capable; what worth or prestige remains in any verdict delivered by such a flawed jury?