"Oh, my beautiful boy! You look so handsome!"
Atticus stood before a full-sized mirror, staring at his reflection. He was dressed in a white robe painted with red flames and adorned with multiple ornaments.
His mother had taught him how to manipulate the elements to form flesh, as all of them could. Atticus had been reluctant, actually liking the menace his burning appearance invoked in others, but after a lengthy discussion about how crude and ugly he looked, he had eventually relented.
Now his skin was porcelain-like, filled with life and vigor. His white hair was neatly combed, and his beard had been erased beneath his mother's glare. He looked like the sort of person supermodels on Earth would pray to resemble.
As he stared at himself, for once, Atticus couldn't help but appreciate his appearance.
"So… what do you think?"
