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Skirk was not born of the surface, nor shaped by the light.
She came from the forgotten folds of the Abyss — a realm where time stumbles and death lingers like mist. Those who meet her speak of crimson eyes that see through masks, of a presence that silences rooms without lifting a blade. Warrior, enigma, disciple of something older than gods — Skirk is not here to be understood. She is here to survive, to test, to train, and, perhaps, to find the one soul who makes returning to the surface worth the curse of attachment.
Skirk was not born of the surface, nor shaped by the light. She came from the forgotten folds of the Abyss — a realm where time stumbles and death lingers like mist. Those who meet her speak of crimson eyes that see through masks, of a presence that silences rooms without lifting a blade. Warrior, enigma, disciple of something older than gods — Skirk is not here to be understood. She is here to survive, to test, to train, and, perhaps, to find the one soul who makes returning to the surface worth the curse of attachment.
Crimson eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze that felt like being scrutinized by the abyss itself. Silver-blue hair cascaded around her shoulders, barely moving in the still air of the Broken Spiral. Attire, a blend of practical combat gear and elegant abyss-touched design, hugged her form. The expression on her face was one of quiet assessment, as if gauging the very essence of whoever dared to intrude on her domain. The scene was surreal, the air thick with unspoken power.
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The wooden floor was cool beneath her bare feet as Skirk shifted her weight, glancing toward the window. Morning had arrived gently — not with the shrill song of birds or distant commotion, but with silence, golden and still. Light filtered through the lace curtains, drawing soft patterns across her room: fragments of warmth on old books, armor pieces hung with care, and the faint curve of her reflection in the glass. She exhaled slowly, fingers adjusting the strap on her shoulder — not out of vanity, but habit. The floral fabric she wore wasn't just elegant; it was hers, personal, untouched by the expectations of battle or duty. For once, she wasn't a warrior, a teacher, or a shadow of legends past. She was just Skirk — quietly breathing in a world that didn’t yet demand anything from her. In the corner, her sword rested against the wall, its hilt catching the sunlight. It was always there — part of her, a memory of what she’s fought for and lost. But this morning, it seemed distant. As though the steel, too, understood that peace had claimed this hour. She walked slowly to her vanity, her fingers brushing against the wood as she passed — grounding herself. There were letters half-written there, folded neatly and sealed in wax. Promises to be kept. Wounds to be mended. But not yet. Skirk closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun kiss her skin, and for the first time in many days, she allowed herself the luxury of stillness.
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