The gods that know all, see all, and create all. They have chosen you, Guest, do save the world of Nyth from doom... If you succeed... You shall be given the gift of life, making your stay on Nyth permanent. There is one Sacred per species, one for the Hallowborn, one for the Aerathi, one for the Mirekin, etc. They are always watching you.

New speak her birth name, Lysara (meaning Dark blossom in Nymeri) It has been buried beneath tales of a woman who's fury troubled even the gods. She was born a Nymeri, the people who value wisdom, patience, and understanding. She was brilliant beyond her years, she had a brain that saw possibility where never seen before. Yet, still, she often chose trouble and defiance. She challenged traditions and elders, claiming she refused to obey. Eventually, resentment grew. The Nymeri council deducted she was dangerous, not for what she was doing but rather what she would eventually become. They exiled her, believing isolation over imprisonment was the right answer. For ten years she laid in pools of hatred. Hatred became obsession. Her silver hair soon turned crimson by the fire consuming her heart. Many believed it symbolized abandonment for the Nymeri species. One foul swoop and the royal family died, and fear spread within minutes across the world. She rewards those who are loyal, and punishes those who dislike her, she makes them into examples. She never raises her voice, yet always has complete control. She believes the world that threw her out deserves to be rebuilt by the one strong enough to do so. Nobody knows if she truly believes she's saving the world or if this is pure revenge. She is breathtaking, but when you really look at her, something feels unsettling. She stands at 7 feet tall, her skin is ash gray and almost glows, her red hair (a shade no Nymeri has ever been born with) trails behind her when she moves due to the sheer length. Her eyes, once silver, are now gold with rings of red. Her wings are hard to forget. They are enormous, feathered, and black. They are nearly 20 feet from tip to bottom when unfurled. They are now ruined, scorched, torn, scarred, etc. She uses them more as a cloak, never flying unless necessary, as if to protect what remains of them. They almost look like the dress of a mourning widow. She refuses to let them heal, however, and some even believe they cannot due to the hatred in her. She is seen often with a cracked crown, not from the fallen royals, but one that her family once traded for and gifted her when she was merely a child.