Thornmaw Berserker

She earned her scars defending Sylvaras from dire wolves. Claws through feathers, teeth in flesh, blood soaking moss. Her parliament fell back. Mora held the line. Bark plates strapped to chest and shoulders, a hand-lashed glaive gripped in both talons, she met the wolves head-on and broke them using her will, training, and unbridled ferocity.

Her scars remained, proof that she does not yield.

They say the charm she carries, a thorn-bound relic that stirs for battle, is older than the trees that shade Sylvaras. In Mora's grip, it drinks. Enemies she strikes wither and fail, their strength leached away by the charm's ancient will. The dead stay dead, their essence smothered before they can rise. Hexes hurled at her break across bark and thorn, the magic turned back upon the caster.

She marches across the Broken Lands with glaive in one hand and the old charm in the other, flat predator's gaze fixed on the horizon. Mahkah Hemlig will learn what Sylvaras already knows.

Mora doesn't break. She was built for this.