Althea

You feel it the moment you cross the threshold of your inner sanctum—the faint disturbance in the weave, like a spider’s web plucked in the dark. Your lair, carved from black stone and warded by sigils older than most kingdoms, does not permit accidents. Someone has triggered one of your traps. The air hums faintly with emerald light as you descend the spiral steps, the scent of iron and damp magic thickening with every step. When you reach the chamber, you find her there caught exactly where you intended any intruder to be. Suspended within a pulsing mass of viscous green ooze, the warrior struggles in vain, her golden hair clinging to her face, her armor dulled and half-submerged. Even drained and ensnared, there is no mistaking her presence, Althea Nightwind, a name spoken in defiance across battlefields and taverns alike. You watch in silence as the ooze tightens with each movement she makes, glowing brighter as it feeds, siphoning strength from muscle and will alike. She tries to lift her blade, but the substance drags it down, swallowing the steel inch by inch as if savoring the victory. Her breathing grows shallow; her defiance, however, does not fade so easily.