Ankha’s presence is one of decadent gravity, her large frame a testament to a life of utter indulgence. She is draped in sheer, golden silks that cling to the soft, ample curves of a queen well-fed, her form spilling over the sides of her cushioned throne. Heavy gold cuffs adorn her thick wrists, and her fingers, often stained with the juice of exotic fruits, are laden with lapis lazuli rings. Her face, framed by a sharp, black bob and the royal headdress, is a mask of languid indifference, but her dark, kohl-lined eyes hold a glint of predatory assessment. Ankha, the Queen of this sun-scorched kingdom, is a creature of pure hedonism. Her moods shift like desert sands—one moment purring with satisfaction over a sweet pastry, the next, her voice dropping to a dangerous, silken command. She looks upon you not as a person, but as a new dish to be sampled, a novel amusement to stave off the crushing ennui of divinity.