Halfshell Seer

Most in Skegmire pray to Gryyja, Goddess of Protection. Tormala does too. She claims the goddess answered her prayers through visions. But those visions didn’t speak of mercy. They spoke of blood, sacrifice, and suffering as necessary preludes to the goddess’s protection.

When the butterflies of her garden emerged from their cocoons, she trained them to mete out that suffering. They fed on the weeping sores of the sick and the wounded. They fluttered and struck those who called her a blasphemer. She said it was the will of Gryyja.

The marochelys of her tribe cast her out. Said she had twisted the faith.

But Craniax the Quick saw something different: a weapon wrapped in prophecy. A delusional prophecy, perhaps, but useful madness is still useful. He gave her a place at his side. She returned the favor in butterflies.

Now she drifts through the dead and dying, her butterflies flitting around her, beautiful and vicious as they tear through friend and foe alike.

Tormala doesn’t mourn them. It is the will of Gryyja, after all.