Mystic Mudbinder

Shomari Namwala doesn’t stand behind the front lines. She is the front line.

Before battle, she wallows in mud, thick sludge clinging to her hide, dripping from her arms, her face, her snarl. The ulund call it a ritual. She calls it getting her hands dirty.

When she wades into the fray, she slings oozing gobs at her enemies—thick, heavy blasts laced with raw life magic, hurled with bone-snapping force. They try to stop her, but the mud absorbs their spells and knits her wounds. She’s unyielding. Immovable.

But no amount of mud can hold back what’s coming.

Palifala Weslinath twists the land with time itself. The ground shifts beneath Bella Ratajowlski and her ulund. Shomari fights alongside them with everything she has. But it’s not enough.

If reinforcements don’t come soon, they won’t just lose the battle. They’ll lose everything. Still, Shomari stands, caked in muck, magic coursing through her, and flings away.

If the Conclave Arcana wants to rewrite the future, she’ll see to it they choke on it.