Blood Witch. Mirror-Bound. Eternal Blade.

Lilith Darora

“If you see her in the mirror—run. If she smiles at you, it’s already too late.”

The Elegy of Lilith Darora

Blood Witch. Mirror-Bound. Eternal Blade.

Before she became a name carved into curses and lamented in silence, Lilith Darora was a prodigy of the Xaela Darora—an isolated, nomadic clan of blood mages who called the Fringes their cradle. Her people believed that power was a sacred transaction: flesh for force, pain for purpose. Lilith was their most gifted daughter, weaving her own veins into spells by the time she could speak the rites.She was meant to become the next matriarch.Instead, she became something else entirely.

The Crimson Gift

From a young age, Lilith saw the world differently—not through eyes of war like her kin, but through the slow, tender threads of suffering. She didn't just use blood for power—she listened to it. The memories in it. The grief trapped in every drop.And one day, she answered a cry that should’ve never been heard.A shard of a forgotten Mhachi relic—a silver mirror etched in black sigils—was uncovered by a band of scavengers and brought to her for identification. She touched it only once. That was all it took.The mirror was a prison. Trapped within it was Ta’Zuhl, the Sighing Hunger, a Voidsent once revered as a blood-sovereign in the final days of Mhach. It fed not on aether, but on anguish siphoned through self-inflicted pain—the same principle that fueled Lilith's blood rites. In her, it found kin. And a door."Your magic sings, girl," it whispered through glass. "Let me teach you the song beneath the scream."

The Binding That Failed

Lilith, ever the scholar, sought to subdue the presence. She attempted a forbidden ritual—one the Darora elders had sealed away—called the Woundkiss Binding. It would allow her to fuse the Voidsent’s power with her own, creating a parasitic balance. But the rite demanded a price: her heart’s blood freely given.She carved the sigils into her skin, a lattice of crimson calligraphy. She offered the blood of her mother, taken in secret. And when the ritual ended, she emerged... different.Eyes lined with void-touched black. A second heartbeat, always pulsing beneath her own. Her tattoos moved. Her spells, once soft and precise, now tore flesh with glee. She could call on black thorns of blood that erupted from the ground, bleed herself to summon spectral arms, or drain memories from a foe’s wound. She became unmatched. Unholy.“You are no longer casting magic,” Ta’Zuhl crooned from within. “You are becoming it.”

The Curse of Battle

Lilith soon learned the curse: to maintain the seal on Ta’Zuhl, she had to keep bleeding. And worse—she had to keep killing.Her own body was now the battlefield. If she denied herself violence, the Voidsent surged forth, seizing her limbs and voice. But in battle? With every wound drawn or given, her control tightened. She could lock the creature behind the crimson veil—so long as she fought.And so she never stopped.Bandits. Slavers. Voidsent. Garleans. She hunted evil like a revenant, drenched in her own blood and that of others. Her beauty became monstrous—her elegance shadowed by gore. Her presence struck awe and fear alike. A woman in black with skin etched in living magic, her heels ringing over stone as if time itself made way for her.Her people exiled her. The Scions feared her. Even the Thaumaturges of Ul'dah dared not speak her name aloud.She became legend.
A nightmare.
And still… she fought.

The Agonized Soul

In her quiet hours—few as they were—Lilith would stand before any mirror she could find, staring, daring the thing within to speak. She’d see the faint shape of Ta’Zuhl in the reflection—a mirror-image of herself, only grinning, dressed in blood-drenched regalia.“Why not rest, darling?”
“You’ve earned your fall.”
“Let me carry the pain. I was made for it.”But she never answered. She’d cut her palm. Draw a sigil. Bleed until the voice quieted.In secret, she sometimes helped villages—curing plagues with whispered rites, slaying beasts that fed on the young, vanishing before dawn. A quiet redemption in a world that would never thank her.She no longer sought salvation.
Only control.

The Final Verse

They say Lilith was last seen near the ruins of Gelmorra, her steps silent, her long white hair streaked with blood not her own. Her dress, torn in elegant lines, fluttered like wings. She had hunted a creature older than sin—a Voidsent Archduke—and disappeared after a battle that left the forest itself scarred.Some say she fell that day. Others, that she became part of the mirror entirely. But there are whispers. In the darkest wars, in forgotten places where blood flows freely, people swear they’ve seen her:A pale woman with horns, tattoos glowing faintly, gloved hands crackling with sigils of living ink.
Eyes full of mourning.
Blade in hand.

“If you see her in the mirror—run. If she smiles at you, it’s already too late.”