Mistweaver

You. Hidden one, dark thing in a lightless place. Why have you left your home? Why do you hide from the wind that once welcomed you?

You. War-mage, shadow-hunter. Was it your ancestor who brought you here? Did you first shed blood in her memory? Was the green of your eyes, that had you shunned? Few come here by choice.

You. Thing in the depths, killer among monstrous things. Did the shadows come for you? Were you tempted into the darkness, or dragged into it? Did you first bloody your fangs to preserve yourself?




You murderess, nightmare spoken of in hushed voices, did the winds of your home carry too well the scent of blood? Did they chase you into the deepest darkness, or did you find the way yourself?
It hardly matters. You walked willingly into the depths. You carved your place in blood.

(Sorry MoonKnight, I'm pretty sure your kin becoming a serial killer isn't going to make the Shadowbinder very inclined to forgive you.)

In the depths of the wood, where rumors flit and morality is strange and ever-shifting, she is a monster.
She kills for fun. Sometimes she kills to steal things, and sometimes she kills as a sacrifice, but mostly she murders because she enjoys it.

She is a Wind dragon, as her green eyes show clearly enough, but her cheerful birthplace is long dead to her. She lurks in the deepest parts of the Wood, where the wind never blows.
Don't be so surprised. She can sense every rustle of movement in places this still.

Who can say why she left her windswept home? Maybe she was caught with talons red, and was driven to hide. Maybe her she was called by her ancestral home. Maybe she just wanted to blend in better.
Shadow dragons looked no fonder on her actions than Wind, but the wood had so many places to hide. She found this still and lightless place of ruins, and she's stalked it every since.

She is not alone. There is a temple and its priestess in the ruins, where she comes to pray when the mood takes her. There are others, monsters and wanderers that know the ways of this place. These ones she understands. But now there are armies forming in the depths, and towers being built, and the name of a warlord on the lips of it all. And for the first time in years, Mistweaver worries.