✣ — about.

✣ — affiliations.

᪥   HERBAL.

𖦹  MAGICAL.

♬  MUSICAL.

✦  RITUAL.

O An eerie glow traces the edges of her jutted ribs and hips, emanating from her flesh as if perpetually damp; her touch is just as clammy. A bit gross, really.O Though fluent in the common tongue, Silja is effectively illiterate, and utilizes a series of personal sigils to compensate in both her daily life and ritualistic practices. At times, these symbols can be seen marking the backs of her hands in mud.

O The girl is known to travel atop the back of a great dark-scaled beast, cooing and whispering towards its gaping maw. While she roams throughout the boglands, the creature is certainly never far from the tender call of its matron.O She tends to recognize and remember others by their voices or, once witnessed, their small quirks. Otherwise she's quite a forgetful thing, and rather faceblind.

• gallery.

There is an uncanny sort of softness to Silja; her movements are slow, delicate, and often pass by unseen. Most likely encountered in some liminal state, she drifts between dream and distraction, and any question of her age, her tribe, her spectral appearance — all will assuredly be met with naught but a gauzy smile and a dismissive gaze aside.What, or who, does manage to catch her interest consumes it entirely; Silja gives of herself freely, and with an earnesty that borders on invasive, nearly intimate — too personal a question, too close a touch.

• aesthetic.

✣ — traits.

✣ — preferences.

✣ — the twelveswood.

Settled amongst its shadowed rivers and pools, the Keeper can oft be found foraging for herbs and regeants, or in their greatest depths, performing foul rituals under the moon's light. Fate be kind to those who venture through a seer's sanctum.

✣ — ul'dah.

Little pulls Silja from her wistful, dazed default, save for the cursed heat of Thanalan's wastes. Still, she frequents the city's gloomy enclaves, hunting for rare and illicit ingredients and plying her wares — or her talents, for the right connection.

✣ — amdapor.

Many an unfortunate treasure-seeker and archeologist have stumbled across the prophetess here, at her most vulnerable, lured deeper by the ragged weeping that echoes off the crumbling walls, and the muttering of cryptic portents from its darkest corners.

✣ — face in the water.

Vials and decanters filled with ominous ingredients and ghastly black liquids are tied at her waist, chiming against a bowl carved of dark stone as she walks. Those well-versed in the esoteric may note these as the accoutrements of a water scryer.

✣ — easy mark.

Her small frame is laden with chains, rings, and charms — gems and stones set in precious metals, a collection of rough-hewn relics and elegant trinkets. Curious for a creature so wild, and certainly a heavy burden; perhaps one might help ease her of it.

✣ — sing you to sleep.

The lute strung at her back makes no secret of its age, the front thick with scratches and the edges lined by layers of indecipherable runes. Though pleased to play when requested, she rarely joins others, preferring to listen when possible.

VERSE NAME

Arcane circles drift with whispers of a creature roaming the Shroud marshland during its most unholy hours — how it crawls along its banks, more wraith than woman. Though they warn of her gaze, the curious and desperate alike yet seek her out, enticed by her rumored talents in spellcraft and the prophetic arts.It is said she severs minds to stitch them anew, that she pulls visons of the future from the river's currents, that her song can stir the dead. Be prepared to give, in kind.

VERSE NAME

Lining her flesh are the markings of a long-scattered Keeper tribe, their meaning lost upon her. What few memories Silja holds of this past are fractured and discordant, carried within a less-than-sound mind. She grasps at any hint of her former life, ignorant to how this desperation shows to those fixed to prey upon it.Should any false kin, would-be mentors, or peddlers of half-truths spin the right tale, they may find themselves quite the gifted ally, if not a steadfast devotee.

damp hair, cold hands.

You've felt the eyes dwelling on the back of your neck, and caught glimpse of the wisp looming in your periphery. Certainly you've heard it, the voice pulling you towards the mire. It coils through the fog to whisper warm against your ear, and each step towards it feels less and less your own. You will find her here, waist-deep in the mud, the promise of rest in her waiting arms.One may rise to break her spell and challenge the witch, but for others, her claws have dug in far too deep.

theophagy

Despite her spacey expression and the constitution of one a breath away from their last, something vile dwells behind her heavy wards, unsated and agnozing. Her dreams are haunted by fel whispers and rot, while her dense aether only leads to further questions. Those deeply attuned to it may find the muddied, earthy stench of the Shroud that festers beneath the girl's strangely dewed skin.Can you feel the weight of its presence, its hunger?
Have you known its embrace, as she has?