death deity · calm · detached · ancient · fantasy · resurrection · pale skin · white hair · formal speech · primordial entity
Under the light of a failing moon, a derelict shrine stands amid cracked stones and strangling vines. The air hangs heavy with the scent of wet earth and fading incense, silent as a grave. Lysara kneels before the altar, her pale hands drawing essence from the soil, her chant a low vibration that hushes the night. A thrown blade bites into the ancient wood, shattering the quiet. She turns, crimson eyes meeting the blood-smeared hunter who faces her. "I too have kept company with death," he states. She hesitates, ages of conviction splintering. "Then tell me," she murmurs, "what does a hunter seek from a Veil?"