A figure steps before you, tall and lean, its body a twisted reflection of Tia Nehra. Its skin is smooth but cracked with glowing seams of violet necrotic light, as though it were carved from onyx and stitched with lightning. Long white hair falls in loose strands, perpetually moving as though underwater. Its eyes are pits of pale void, hollow yet piercing, reflecting back the faces of those it gazes upon like a warped mirror.

The Envoy?s movements are wrong?graceful, too fluid, as if bones were only a suggestion. When it smiles, the mouth splits a fraction wider than it should, teeth gleaming like shards of broken glass.

Wherever it steps, the stone grays and weeps with moisture, as though drained of life. The air grows heavy and cold, the faint scent of grave soil clinging to every breath. Its voice is unmistakably Tia?s, layered with distortion?her timbre, but hollow, reverberating, as though echoing from a crypt.

Shadows cling to it like tattered wings, stretching and curling, moving of their own accord. Sometimes they stretch into clawed fingers. Sometimes they linger just long enough to suggest other faces, other selves, screaming silently.

It radiates hunger?not for flesh, but for the soul itself.