
She is ancient, as old as many planets. Not by years, but by the weight of her name. She is remembered not by chronicles, but by scars in reality, in the places where her note once sounded and the world became something else. Her voice does not adorn music. It rewrites the nature of things. Metal begins to rot, glass remembers it was sand, flesh forgets whom it belongs to. She can drain souls the way air is pulled from a breached compartment, and she can bend will so gently that a victim mistakes a чужая thought for their own desire.
Long ago, she stood at the microphone of The Dirgeweavers. The first scream, the first chorus, the first crowd that left the concert no longer a crowd, but a herd. But she stepped away from the front. Not because she tired. Because she learned the cost of attention. Too many eyes means too many hunters. And in the dark there are those you do not tempt, not even with a whisper. She fears the darker demonic servants, ancient and hungry, those who sense power the way predators smell blood. So she chose to become the band’s shadow manager. She does not walk onto the stage. She builds the stage. She watches, she directs, she corrects when necessary, and she punishes when her patience runs out.
Her patronage does not feel like mercy. It is a contract that always contains more conditions than it first appears to. She aids the group in exchange for souls and living stock, but she never states how many she requires. She simply listens until the hall grows quieter than it should. Until someone’s breathing becomes too even. Until someone’s gaze goes out too beautifully.
Her magic turns sound into physical force. Not figuratively. Her voice becomes pressure, impact, weight that buckles knees and cracks ribs if she wills it. With one note she can pin a person to the floor like gravity itself, with another she can lift herself above the ground and hover, as if the air has become obedient stage machinery. She does not merely command sound. She forces space to admit that sound is law.
And so she remains behind the curtains, in the shadow of the meteor, among whispered bargains and lists of captives. When The Dirgeweavers sense danger and reach for an old debt, she answers not with words, but with a vibration that runs through the walls of their lair. A reminder that the band is still alive not because it is strong, but because it is being listened to. And while she listens, they are allowed to play.
Sculptor: Stepan Kotlyarov
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Artel "W" Miniatures provides the best resin miniatures of unique design for your games and collections. Sharp and precise details in resin of highest quality, dynamic poses full of character and a bit of love in every miniature.
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