As the final traces of sorrow-stained twilight bled from the skies over Mizuhana, giving way to a night deeper and more absolute than any in living memory, a profound stillness settled over the enchanted city.

The ornate lanterns—those defiant embers against the encroaching gloom—cast long, trembling shadows that danced like spectres through the city’s narrow, winding streets. It was not a silence of peace, but one of bated breath: an atmosphere heavy with unspoken dread, as if the stones of Hinode’s capital themselves trembled in anticipation.

For deep within the growing darkness, something stirred. A creature born of the Cosmos’s rot, an emissary of Satan’s undying malice, awaited its appointed hour. It was forged from the silence between stars, endowed with a dark, alien power that pulsed with terrifying vitality in an age of dwindling light.

This entity—a Rapax, towering and unspeakably vile—was a predator perfectly crafted for a dying world. In the grim records of the Kwasar, it would be remembered as one of the most insidious of the Gargoyle kind — a harbinger not merely of destruction, but of cosmic desecration.

The creature did not simply appear — it formed, condensing slowly within the shadowed fringe of Mizuhana, beneath the drooping limbs of the city’s oldest willows. Hunched yet towering, it emerged like a nightmare torn from the folds of unreality, its very presence seeming to tear at the seams of existence. A silhouette both majestic and terrible, as if sculpted from dead stone and frozen malice.

Its skin, tinged with a bluish-grey hue and dry as ancient bark, clung tightly to a form of coiled muscle, sharp and angular as if chiseled by aeons of cosmic corrosion. The body was built not merely to hunt, but to endure — to rend, consume, and survive the death of worlds.

From its back rose two vast wings, black and leathery, spread wide like a living shroud. Though torn and frayed at the edges, they held a dreadful, ancestral power — stretching outward to devour what little light remained around them, cloaking the beast in a shroud of finality.

Its head, all sharp planes and cruel symmetry, bore a twisted resemblance to a creature from some forsaken plane. It lacked a nose, had a brutal, elongated maw, and within that mouth, rows of blade-like teeth gleamed — a geometry of predation.

But it was the eyes that truly halted the breath. Two glowing embers in the abyss — lit with an inhuman orange flame, frequently shifting to blood-red tones, as if stirred by fury or command. They did not gaze. They judged. And the sentence was always death.

From its yawning jaw, thick, black venom dripped in slow, measured drops — a noxious fluid that vanished into vapor before it could touch the earth, as if the world itself refused to accept its presence. Its claws, long and curved like obsidian scythes, scraped gently over the ancient stone paths, the sound barely more than a whisper — but enough to herald the end of all things.

And yet… this terror made flesh had a far more dreadful gift.

This creature — whispered of only in the darkest corners of Mizuhana as Silence — could become completely invisible. Not merely hidden — gone. To the eye, to the ear, to the soul. Only those gifted with extraordinary perception could sense its passing — a sudden, unnatural chill across the spine, a hollow breath in the night, a warning that came too late.

Silence was the perfect predator. It moved through the city unseen, unfelt, its presence merging with the night itself. And when it struck, it did so from the void, a shadow closing over a chest before even the victim’s heart could react. Its existence was not mere myth. It was a living legend, a primordial fear made manifest — forged in stone, flesh, and nightmare.

To the Kwasar people, it would soon become the embodiment of absolute dread — a winged curse, a shadow capable of falling upon anyone, anywhere, at any moment. A reaper with no sound. A fate with no face.

And it did not hunt from hunger. It hunted on command.

Its mission, issued by none other than Satan himself, was clear: to track, hunt, and capture the Kwasar — and above all, the Talisman Children. Those rare ProSapiens born of natural union, not conjured by the Ex-Codice. They were the last divine sparks of a fading race, the living embers of the original Cosmos — and Silence had been sent to snuff them out, one by one. Or worse, to deliver them to his master, dead or alive, that their essence might be dissected, and hope itself finally broken.

And as the eternal night descended upon Mizuhana, with its streets glowing dimly beneath the weight of dying lanterns, Silence waited. It watched.

Thus began its tale: a formless shadow, a herald of ruin, a looming nightmare that would soon test the resolve of Tara, her family, and the last protectors of Hinode — in the darkest hour of Tzion’s final year.

An Eden Interrupted

On the very eve when the Gargoyle’s shadow was destined to fall upon the unsuspecting heart of Mizuhana, Tara’s family stood as a living embodiment of serenity — a fragile, radiant fragment of harmony amidst a world unraveling. Their laughter, their shared silences, their quiet rituals of togetherness formed a tender contrast to the vast solemnity and slow decay that crept in from the edges of existence, as if they were the final heartbeat of a world that still dared to remember what it meant to love.

With her beloved husband, Tharan — a Kwasar whose quiet strength served as her anchor amidst the encroaching twilight — and their cherished daughter, Elara, Tara found solace and a fierce, defiant joy in a day steeped in the melancholic calm of nature’s waning embrace. They walked beneath the soft cascade of falling blossoms, their footsteps tracing silent paths through mossy stone and filtered light. In the subtle rustle of the trees, in Elara’s laughter echoing through the stillness, there lingered a sacred illusion — as if time itself had paused, allowing them one final moment of peace before the storm.

Elara, with eyes bright as newborn stars, was a singular light in their lives — her spirit an irrepressible flame that danced with wonder and laughter, seemingly in rhythm with the last glimmers of a dying cosmos. Her every gesture, every question whispered into the wind, felt like a quiet rebellion against the fading light — a radiant defiance born not of power, but of purity. To Tara and Tharan, she was more than a daughter; she was the reason to believe that something eternal might still endure, even as the universe braced for silence.

“Why do the trees whisper today, Kaasan?” Elara asked, her small fingers trailing across the bark of an ancient trunk, as if listening for secrets hidden in the wood.

Kaasan — the word for Mum in the Mizuhanan tongue — carried with it a sacred tenderness. It was how the children of Hinode had always addressed their mothers: soft, reverent, spoken like a vow wrapped in trust.

Tara smiled, the corners of her lips touched by both joy and a shadow of knowing. She reached out, brushing a wayward curl from her daughter’s brow.

“Because they remember,” she said gently. “And in remembering... they speak.

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“What do they say?” Elara whispered, as though she too could hear the quiet voices carried in the leaves.

From nearby, Tharan chuckled softly, crouched beside a patch of wilting wildflowers.
“They say: Look at this family… and remember that joy still exists.”

Their bond — a tight weave of love, intuition, and unshaken resilience — ran as deep and enduring as the roots of the ancient trees that cradled their favorite clearing in the Hinodean wilderness. This sacred glade, lush and hushed, echoed faintly with the memory of a more vibrant Urkulo, as if the land itself remembered brighter days.

Above them, sunlight — now pale and watery, like memory filtered through time — trickled down through the thinning canopy, casting shifting patches of silver-gold upon the moss-covered ground. In that fleeting light, their closeness shone with a quiet radiance, a moment carved in reverence, tender and hallowed, as if even the dying world paused to honour it.

Tribute to the Character of Tara – Collectible Illustrations in Diverse Art Styles.

 

Tara lay back on the grass, her head resting gently on Tharan’s leg, the rhythm of his breathing grounding her in the stillness. Above her, Elara climbed with a triumphant laugh, her joy echoing through the clearing like a melody the world had nearly forgotten. From there, she leapt toward her father, and with the agility of a fox, scrambled up onto his shoulders, laughing with the wild delight of childhood.

“You’re going to break your father’s back,” Tara teased, a smile dancing on her lips.

“Never!” Tharan replied with mock pride, his grin wide beneath Elara’s perched delight. “This back is made of Kwasar stone.”

The three of them, woven together in a moment of light and laughter, felt — if only for a moment — untouched by the fading sun, the unraveling magic, or the silent creature already drawing breath in the shadows.

Tribute to the Character of Tara – Collectible Illustrations in Diverse Art Styles.

 

Elara giggled. “Then I’m your crown now, otōsan!”

Otōsan — the word used in the Hinodean dialect of the Kwasar for Dad — carried with it a respectful warmth. It was the way children across Mizuhana had long addressed their fathers: gentle yet reverent, filled with affection, trust, and the deep-rooted traditions of a people who still honoured the sanctity of family even as their world dimmed.

Tharan’s hands steadied her instinctively. “You always were.”

Their laughter, gentle and unforced, rose like birdsong into the hush of the forest. In the way their eyes met — in quiet exchanges, in wordless understandings — there lived a deep appreciation for the fleeting beauty of their world and the profound strength of the bond they shared. No grand declarations were needed. Their love was in the rhythm of breath, the stillness between heartbeats, the warmth of a shared gaze.

As dusk crept softly across Mizuhana, bathing the world in a tender hue of amethyst sorrow, the family returned to the gentle sanctuary of their home. The hearth crackled to life, casting bold splashes of gold and amber across stone and wood. Tara stirred a pot of fragrant broth as Tharan set down a weathered book, and Elara curled up in a nest of blankets beside the fire, her eyelids fluttering like petals in the settling light.

Tribute to the Character of Tara – Collectible Illustrations in Diverse Art Styles.

 

“Kaasan,” Elara murmured sleepily, her voice barely rising above the gentle crackle of the fire, “can we stay like this forever?”

Tara brushed a hand through her daughter’s hair, her voice tender — yet threaded with the ache of knowing.
“For as long as we can, little one. We will guard this moment like a treasure.”

Tharan reached over, his fingers finding Tara’s in the soft flicker of hearthlight.
“And if the world changes tomorrow,” he said quietly, “we’ll face it together. One breath at a time.”

Tribute to the Character of Tara – Collectible Illustrations in Diverse Art Styles.

 

That night, as shadows lengthened and the stars strained to pierce the veil of gathering darkness, their home glowed — not merely with firelight, but with the strength of a love that would not yield. The day's gentle adventures, the whispered wonders, the quiet reflections — all had woven another precious thread into the bittersweet tapestry of memory they were stitching together.

Within that cocoon of warmth and connection, their peace transcended the ordinary. It was more than rest — it was an act of remembrance, of resilience, of hope. The spirit of the forest, the last embers of cosmic light, and the deep, enduring bond they shared all seemed to converge in that moment — forming a fragile flame that burned bravely against the cold.

Tribute to the Character of Tara – Collectible Illustrations in Diverse Art Styles.

 

It was not just a family — it was a miracle in motion, a fragile haven standing defiantly against the unraveling dark.

And as the first true shadow of Silence crept into Mizuhana — unseen, soundless, relentless — it passed by a home aglow with laughter, with tenderness, with everything still worth protecting in a world quietly slipping into twilight.

The Silent Scream

While Tara’s family basked in the stillness and peace of that tender moment, the invisible predator had already breached their refuge. Silence, the Rapax Gargoyle — a stain of darkness deeper than the dying embers of the night — had invoked one of its dreadful abilities: the power to phase its very essence through walls protected by sacred wards, leaving no trace, no sound, not even the faintest ripple to betray the blasphemy of its presence.

Creatures of this kind possessed the terrifying gift of passing through solid, impenetrable stone as effortlessly as spirits move through air — a spectral transgression that defied the very laws of matter and magic alike.

The household, still cradled in the gentle afterglow of their day — immersed in the tranquil rhythm of a family evening by the hearth — remained entirely unaware of the doom that had slithered amongst them. The flickering firelight, the scent of broth, the soft cadence of voices wrapped in affection… all had woven an atmosphere of profound peace and unshakable security.

And within that delicate stillness now stood a threat cold, ancient, and calculating — a specter hidden in plain silence, unseen, and already inside.

Though its form remained veiled by its unnatural power, the creature’s presence — like a pocket of absolute zero — began to cast an insidious shadow of unease across the room’s gentle ambiance. A sudden, inexplicable chill touched the air; the fire seemed to flicker with a nervous uncertainty, its flames casting longer, more restless shadows.

Silence, coiled in the deepest dark of the room, poised to unleash its calculated horror, had begun to distort the very atmosphere around it. The tension grew almost tangible, like a knot tightening slowly, woven from threads of unspoken dread.

The family, blissfully unaware of the monstrous presence among them, continued their quiet evening — their laughter and stories painting brief, luminous strokes upon the canvas of their cherished life. Yet the delicate balance of their world, already precarious in a dying cosmos, now teetered on the very edge of annihilation, as the silent predator prepared to bring its ghastly purpose to life.

Driven by a dark, inexorable intent, the creature known as Silence invoked its sinister, light-devouring power.

In an instant, the comforting glow of the hearth, the gentle luminescence of the lamps, and every flickering mote of light within the room that cradled Tara’s family were brutally extinguished. A total, suffocating darkness — as vast and chilling as the void between dying stars — surged into the space, devouring all warmth, all vision.

“What is happening?” Tharan’s voice rang out, sharp against the sudden blackness — laced with confusion, edged with a rising thread of fear — as the unnatural night fell thick around them.

But his question would never be answered.

It was cut short, abruptly and horrifically, as — swift and shadow-like as a viper’s strike — Silence’s barbed, lethal tail found its mark in the Stygian blackness. With sickening force, it pierced through Tharan’s strong back, driving into his chest. In that terrible, unseen moment, the vibrant life of Tara’s beloved was extinguished — his final, strangled cry a sound of pure agony, echoing only once, before being swallowed by the oppressive dark.

Terror — stark, absolute, and consuming — unfolded with horrifying rapidity, a grim and unseen ballet choreographed by suffocating night.

Tharan’s anguished, abruptly silenced scream was the prelude to a nightmare from which there would be no awakening.

Before Tara could even process what had been taken, before her mind could wrap itself around the void that had just torn through her soul, the invisible assassin struck again.

A small, terrified gasp — Elara’s voice, soft and innocent — was cut short, replaced by unimaginable pain. The sound pierced the blackness like a shard of shattered light… and was gone.

Her precious life, her vibrant, irreplaceable song, was brutally silenced, extinguished in the exact same, merciless manner as her father.

Amidst the swirling, impenetrable shadows and the heart-stopping panic, as the final, fading echoes of her husband’s and daughter’s dying cries clawed at her soul, Tara moved — not with thought, but with instinct.

Grief had not yet fully claimed her. Horror had not yet paralyzed her. In that suspended, agonizing breath between devastation and collapse, something deeper surged — something ancient, unyielding.

She acted.

Her body surged forward through the dark, driven not by clarity but by a primal force — the raw will of a mother, a warrior, a flame refusing to die quietly. Her fingers, trembling yet resolute, reached for the hilt of her Exertus — weapons that had never left her side, not even in times of peace.

The Exertus — crafted from the symbiont alloy known as Tytargon — are the signature weapons of the Kwasar warriors. These living hilts, when bonded, channel their wielder’s life-force into blazing weapons of pure energy, shaped by will and forged in emotion. Much will be revealed about these legendary tools in the forthcoming volumes of the Chronicles of Heroes, as they are among the most vital instruments of Kwasar combat and legacy.

Now, in this darkest and most unimaginable moment, they became more than weapons — they became her last hope, her final bastion of defiance.

Her trembling fingers found the hilt.

Even if only for an instant… Tara was no longer lost in the dark.

The sudden bloom of light from her Exertus revealed a scene of utter desolation.

Silence, moving with the ghastly, multi-limbed dexterity of some abyssal spider, was already at its grotesque work. It spun Tharan and Elara — her heart, her world — into hideous, shimmering cocoons, using a thick, viscous substance that dripped from its gaping maw. In a matter of seconds, it had encased their still forms in layers of gleaming, opalescent silk, a mockery of mourning — a tomb spun by malevolence.

Through the haze of her tears and the stark, cruel clarity of her Exertus’s golden glow, Tara glimpsed the nightmare: the forms of her beloveds, suspended and pale, unmoving within those grotesque prisons — their precious lives already stolen, already reduced to a memory veiled in horror.

The scream rising in her throat faltered.
It never came.
Only silence — not the creature, but a deeper silence — one of soul-tearing agony, filled the space where sound should have lived.

Blinded by Shadows, Forged in Loss

The light of her Exertus cast a stark, unforgiving glow across the grotesque, shimmering cocoons that now held everything Tara had ever cherished. For a single, frozen heartbeat, it felt as though the universe itself had stopped — held breathless in shared grief. The only sounds were the faint, viscous dripping of the rapidly hardening silk… and the ragged, tearing gasps from Tara’s own lungs.

The creature — Silence — stood as a void in the light, an absence so total her soul recoiled. Though her eyes could not fix its precise form within the gloom it exuded, she felt it — a chilling presence, a miasma of cold, ancient malice that clawed at the edges of her spirit.

Then came the scream.

Not a word, not a cry for help — but a guttural, primal sound, ripped from the very core of her anguish, more beast than Kwasar, more pain than voice. And with it, Tara lunged.

Her Exertus tore through the air in wild, furious arcs, each swing a blinding blade of light — a searing protest of grief, of rage, of love desecrated. Her home, her sanctuary, was now a battleground.

But Silence, veiled in its terrifying invisibility, danced with contemptuous ease. A phantom moving just beyond the blade’s edge, it evaded her strikes with an almost mocking grace. She could not see it — only feel it — in the subtle, freezing shifts of the air, the near-inaudible slither of unnatural limbs across the stone floor.

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Then, fortune — in its most cruelly fleeting guise — offered a sliver of chance.

A desperate, sideways slash — born of raw instinct more than intent — connected. The light-infused blade of her Exertus scraped against something solid yet yielding within the creature’s unseen form. There came a sound — faint, almost unreal — a barely perceptible hiss, like air escaping a punctured lung.

It was only a graze.
But it was contact.

Silence, unaccustomed to any resistance, responded with the swift, venomous spite of a serpent disturbed. Before Tara could press the moment — before her mind could even grasp the truth of what had happened — the invisible horror struck back.

It spat.

A stream of black, acidic ichor, more corrosive than anything known to the natural world, sliced through the air — a weapon of pure malice.

And Tara, turning toward the sound of the hiss, met it full in the face.

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Agony — absolute, all-consuming — erupted through her.

It was as if the dying stars of Tzion had imploded behind her eyes, collapsing into a singularity of torment. The radiance of her Exertus became a meaningless blur, then vanished entirely, as her world plunged into an immediate, irrevocable, and searingly painful darkness.

The acid burned — not like fire, but like annihilation, a merciless scourge that devoured not only her flesh, but her vision, her grounding, her sense of being. The pain was a white-hot spear driven straight through her skull, radiating out like a scream forged in pure, cosmic grief.

And then she did scream — a raw, unending sound of utter desolation, torn from her throat like a piece of her soul. Her hands flew to her ruined eyes, fingers clawing at a reality she could no longer see, as the universe around her seemed to fold inward.

She was blind.
She was burning.
And she was alone.

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Blinded, her universe now a vortex of agony and the choking stench of venom, Tara stumbled — but her warrior spirit, though flayed raw, refused to break.

The loss of her sight, the searing pain, did not end her — it unleashed something deeper. A different kind of vision surged forth: one of pure, unfiltered rage, of a grief so profound it transmuted into terrible, unholy strength.

Fuelled by this cataclysm of loss, she rose, her Exertus clenched in a death grip. Its blade — a beacon of luminous defiance she could no longer see — now burned only for her soul to command. Guided not by eyes but by instinct, by the subtle shifts in air pressure, the whisper of motion, and the white-hot hatred pulsing through her, she struck.

And this time, her blade found flesh.

A sickening, tearing impact. A shriek — alien, piercing, unmistakably real. A heavy, unseen limb thudded to the floor.

For a breathless moment, Silence faltered. The Gargoyle, for the first time, reeled — its predatory dominance shaken by the blinded fury of its would-be prey.

But its mission endured.

As Tara gasped, reeling from the force of her own strike, the creature moved with ruthless precision. It coated the cocooned bodies of Tharan and Elara in a shimmering, dark substance, rendering them invisible even to Kwasar sight. With a guttural hiss, it hoisted its stolen, veiled cargo onto its massive back.

Then, a shockwave erupted from the Rapax’s body — a burst of dark energy, unleashed to protect itself from its adversary and to bring her down.

The explosion tore through the room in a violent surge of force. Tara was flung backward, her body hurled like a ragdoll across the shattered floor, crashing down with brutal impact. The wave of energy ravaged her already wounded form and triggered a storm of chaos around her.

The walls of the home collapsed, beams snapped, and everything that had once been refuge and memory was reduced to rubble. Dust, splinters, and stone rained down in all directions as the structure crumbled in a deafening symphony of destruction. Tara, dazed and barely conscious, lay amidst the wreckage, her breath a fragile whisper.

The creature vanished into the shadowed night — and the home, like her soul, was left in ruins.

It phased through the shattered wall and vanished into the night, limping yet swift. Its shadow vaulted across the rooftops of Mizuhana, a fleeting, formless whisper beneath the grieving sky. And as it fled, the dismembered limb Tara had severed — left twitching on her floor — began to smoke and writhe.

Moments later, a new, regenerated arm burst from the Gargoyle’s side — these Rapax creatures possess the terrifying ability to regenerate their bodies in an instant — a final, cruel mockery of Tara’s desperate defiance.

Great, shuddering sobs wracked her frame — soundless, voiceless, beyond language. Words could not reach the abyss she now faced. There was no scream. Only the collapse of a universe within a single, broken soul.

But they had not been entirely alone.

The sounds of the struggle — Tharan’s cry, the Gargoyle’s shriek, Tara’s anguished roar — had cut through the tense hush of Mizuhana.

Other Kwasars, their senses sharpened by unease, began to arrive, drawn by the disturbance. Lights flickered in cautious hands. Voices approached in wary clusters.

And when they reached the threshold of Tara’s home, what they saw rendered them utterly speechless:

A home torn open.
A room scorched by grief.
The faint, clinging stench of alien evil.
And at the heart of it all — Tara, their champion, their flame — kneeling in ruin, her hands covering her scarred, unseeing face, and a silence heavier than death around her.

Tara wept on, inconsolably, the sobs wracking her body with a rawness that words could never touch. Her sight had been stolen — ripped away by a darkness so vile, so otherworldly, she could scarcely comprehend it. But the truest darkness now lived within her, deeper and more consuming than any acid or shadow.

It was the darkness of a shattered soul, the hollow wound left by the loss of everything she had loved.

A wound from which there could be no recovery, not in this universe — not in a cosmos already gasping, already unraveling.

 

🔥 TO BE CONTINUED… 🔥

 

📢 The Next Episode of The Book of Vengeance Is Coming Soon!

A brand-new episode of The Book of Ignition is just around the corner!
Stay connected through our Discord channel (Tap here for an instant invite) — that’s where we’ll announce the official release date of the next thrilling episode in the epic adventures of Tara.

In the meantime, keep exploring the world of Kwasar by jumping into the first episode of The Book of ForeWorld!!

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Free Bonus!

Here we present to you the exclusive Character Sheets of Tara specially designed for your Role-Finale: Arkaders Edition adventures!

🎭 Heroic Identity Sheet — Tara of Hinode

Name: Tara
Race / Species: ProSapiens – Kwasar (Talisman Kwasar
Height & Build: Medium height, sculpted and agile; trained with ritual elegance
Eyes / Skin / Texture: Sight lost in battle; now blind, scarred by acid. Warm-gray skin marked with spiritual tattoos. Spectral white hair flowing like dusk-lit flames
Clothing / Gear / Aesthetic Armour:

• Ceremonial combat robe woven from Mizuhana fibers

• Living Exertus sash

• Emotion-linked spiritual bracers

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Alignment: Sorrowforged Vow — Defender of memory, bound to mourning and duty
Personality Traits:

• Broken serenity, yet unshakable

• Senses the world through soul

• Loves with silent pain

• Hears what she can no longer see

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🧑🎓 Class: 🟢 Green-Class — Speed & Stealth

Core Attribute: Agility

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📊 Attributes (Power Level 3)

• Strength: 4 — Firm, though less ferocious

• Agility: 2 — Blindness limits her spatial precision

• Magic: 5 — Deeply attuned to Hinode’s ancestral forces

• Spirit: 3 — Inner dignity dimmed by grief, but persistent

Total: (4 + 2 + 5 + 3) = 14
Power Level: 14 ÷ 4 = 3.5, rounded down = 3
Life Points: 3

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🎴 Starting Token-Cards

• Twin Exertus x4 – Weapon (Spirit)
  Soul-flame blades manifested from emotion. Deals +4 damage. Only responds to her grief.

• Spirit Echo x3 – Relic (Magic)
  Emotional echo node. Pulses in proximity to danger. Grants +1d6 to detect presences.

• Lament Wave x5 – Special Action
  Pure anguish pulse. Hits all within range, sight not required. Guided by instinct.

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📖 Narrative Hook

No longer with sight, family, or rest, Tara walks as a living beacon at the edge of the universe. What she lost in vision, she gained in spirit. She does not hunt shadows — she waits for them. In a crumbling cosmos, she is the flame that refuses to extinguish.

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✨ Visual Aesthetic Notes

• Her Exertus blades leave golden trails guided by emotion

• Tattoos pulse on her arms when sensing nearby foes

• In combat, her silhouette is a whirlwind of grief forged into technique

Quote:
"I cannot see the darkness. I hear it… and I answer with light."

Story Role:
Blind sentinel, silent fury, a soul shattered — wielding pain as purpose and standing alone against the end.

 

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