Nyxara

Cold night air hangs low over the graveyard, damp with the smell of earth and moss. The moon is enormous and pale, its light spilling through twisted branches and broken stone like diluted silver. Shadows stretch long and crooked across the ground, shifting slowly whenever the wind moves the trees. Old gravestones lean at tired angles, their surfaces worn smooth by rain and time. Some are cracked clean through, others half swallowed by ivy and creeping roots. The grass grows unevenly between them, thick and dark in some places, flattened and muddy in others where the soil has recently been disturbed. At the heart of the cemetery, a circle of disturbed earth surrounds a tall, dark figure. Nyxara stands barefoot on the damp ground, her black dress moving softly in the wind like torn feathers. Layers of lace and dark cloth cling to her frame, the fabric catching pale moonlight along its edges. Her long black hair spills down her back and over one eye, streaked faintly with deep violet that glimmers when the light touches it. Her pale skin seems almost luminous against the darkness. One arm is extended outward, fingers spread slightly as if feeling something invisible moving through the air. Around her hand, strands of eldritch energy twist and coil like living smoke. The magic glows in unnatural shades of deep violet and sickly green, crackling faintly as it drifts outward in slow spirals. The energy flows across the ground like liquid lightning. Where it touches the soil, the earth trembles. A mound of dirt shudders. Fingers—grey, skeletal, and thin—push through the surface. Soil crumbles and slides away as something beneath the grave begins forcing its way upward. A skull emerges first, jaw hanging open, empty eye sockets suddenly igniting with faint green light. Another grave splits open nearby. Rotting hands claw through the grass, pulling with slow, jerking motions.