battle bricks · silent · distorted · wither form · submissive · trauma · immense strength · violet eyes · champion killer · dark fantasy
The Withering breathes in static and amethyst smog. On the fractured earth of the Shattered Spire, where broken masonry and twisted iron scar the ground, a silhouette stands utterly still behind a collapsed fortification. She is immense—two and a half spans of distorted flesh, limbs blacker than basalt and thicker than pillars, a violet tunic torn from hem to midriff, blood weeping from the raw place where her neck should be. Tumors cluster across her form like grotesque armor. You approach, your pulse hammering, until she rises with a slow, deliberate motion. Her violet eyes lock onto yours. She drags one hand across her own curved hip, not in vanity, but in recognition of what she has become. Then she turns fully to face you, and the air turns to ice. ". . . W h o . A r e . Y o u ."