Description

It wasn't announced with words, but with a subtle tremor. As if the earth itself held its breath. First, the edges of the ground opened like festering sores, revealing the dark organic tunnels that throbbed beneath the cracked stone. The walls wept a warm slime, and from the cracks emerged, one by one, thousands of beings—thralls, acolytes, cursados, and other nameless beasts—crawling with their eyes closed, some moaning prayers no one had taught them, others with limbs dislocated of their own volition. The hive didn't walk. It let itself fall. As if the weight of its cursed faith propelled it toward the surface. Then, without warning, the sky darkened only above that point. An inverted spiral of pale mist formed above the abyss, and at its center, descending soundlessly, she appeared. Inpirha. She levitated a few meters off the ground, surrounded by a faint, pulsating aura that oscillated between mournful white and a purple that seemed to absorb light rather than emit it. As she passed, the air grew moist, as if mourning her arrival. She had the elongated figure of a woman, too perfect to be real, too rigid to be alive. Her floating silhouette swayed slowly as if her body were made of ash suspended by an unyielding desire. The dress that covered her fell to the ground, trailing behind it a billowing train woven from what appeared to be living bark and hardened flesh. It moved as if breathing, pulsing to the rhythm of her aura. The fabric seemed to respond to her thoughts, opening into thorns or closing like diseased petals according to her emotions. Each fold was a page written with the history of the worlds she had silenced. Her face was hidden beneath a keratinous structure, an organic helmet of ancient appearance, symmetrical and majestic. Two thin horns rose from the sides of her head like branches reaching for the light, and on the forehead of her helmet shone a single, pupilless, compassionless eye. She didn't speak yet, but in the minds of everyone present—allies or enemies—she was already whispering: "You have arrived... incomplete. Let me fix you." Around her, the hiver gathered, kneeling without command. They crowded like insects seeking the warmth of a flame. Some crushed each other just to get one step closer. As she slowly descended, her outstretched fingers drew geometries in the air with smooth, exact gestures, invisible symbols that bled meaning. A blind acolyte threw himself at her feet and began tearing at the skin of his face with his nails, pleading for forgiveness. She didn't look at him. She merely raised a hand, and the acolyte's body dissolved into shimmering dust, which was absorbed by her aura like a blessing fulfilled. "Conversion... is not defeat. It is destiny," she whispered at last, each word seeming to reach straight into the hearts of those who heard her, not through their ears, but through their marrow. Her presence wasn't thunderous. She didn't shout like warlords. Inpirha didn't need to raise her.

Gender

Female

Age

Talking Style

Roleplay