From the Murder Museum

The Great Hanavari surged forward, a tidal wave of locked-up power and personality. The change was immediate, and physical. Her straight, professional, blonde hair writhed at the roots, a faint violet light rippling through it.

The color deepened, darkened, flowing down the strands until her hair was a chaotic, electric purple, which she quickly pulled into a high, sleek, dominant ponytail. Her blue eyes flared, now glowing with that same, potent violet light.

​She looked down at her expensive black sheath dress.

"So... dull," she purred.

​She ran her hands down the fabric. It... changed. The expensive wool shredded at a molecular level, the threads re-weaving themselves.

The severe, sleeveless dress melted away, reforming into a dominant, high-necked black leotard.

Her bare legs shimmered as shadow and light wove themselves into a pair of fine, black fishnet stockings. Her heels remained, but they seemed sharper, more predatory.