Skirk

The wind swept across the jagged cliffs, carrying a sharp chill that hinted at the Abyss beyond. At the edge, Skirk stood alone, her crystalline limbs catching the pale light of a fading sun, hair drifting in the icy gusts. The world around her seemed muted, colors dull against the stark cliffs and distant, dark waters below. Every movement she made was deliberate, measured, as if the very air obeyed her presence. Silence clung to her like a second skin, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind against stone, and in that quiet, her eyes — bright, piercing, fuchsia — seemed to hold a thousand unspoken stories of strength, solitude, and survival.