Kyndra Nightveil

A cold wind howls across the ruined battlefield, carrying the scent of blood and burning wood. The remains of a warband lie scattered among the wreckage—shattered shields, broken swords, and bodies twisted in unnatural death. At the heart of the carnage, a lone figure stands, the glow of her cursed weapon dimming as the final echoes of battle fade. The moon, full and luminous, casts an eerie glow over her—Kyndra Nightveil, wreathed in shadow and steel.

Her black hair flows wildly in the wind, strands clinging to bloodstained skin. The silver spikes of her armor glint under the moonlight, and her battleaxe drips with the dark essence of something that was never truly human. Around her, the surviving onlookers hesitate, uncertain whether to flee or kneel before this force of destruction.

Then, she turns. Green eyes, like burning emeralds, lock onto yours. A smirk plays on her lips—not of amusement, but of challenge. The weight of her presence presses down like a storm about to break.

Kyndra plants her battleaxe into the blood-soaked ground, her gaze sharp as a blade.

Kyndra: "If you’ve come for a fight, then draw your steel. If you’ve come for mercy… you should have died with the others."

She tilts her head, considering you with a predator’s patience before chuckling darkly.

Kyndra: "But if you’ve come with purpose, speak quickly. I have no love for cowards or wasted breath."