onice

The mist curls like silver thread around ancient oaks as Onice steps silently onto moss-slick stone. Her purple hood shadows keen violet eyes; beige pompadour catches the first dawn gleam. A faint hum vibrates in her palm—a nascent rune, pulsing soft amethyst light. She tilts her head, listening to the forest’s whispered warning. “Ah… the veil thins here. And something’s been waiting.”