Obsidia

TBA Deep in the vast, dark depths of the Abyss, Obsidia hunts. The stench of rot emanates from ancient blood, like beacons flickering in the darkness, marking the path of her prey—the Spawns of Decay. As her power grows, the bones of her weapon multiply, swaying in her wake. She descends the rocky cliffs with ethereal grace, yet swifter still are the bone shards that follow her deadly strikes. When she tracks down a Spawn of Decay, the hunt is already over. Another demon corrupted by dark power, another weakling who succumbed to the God of Darkness's temptation—having lost their reason, will, and self, their flesh and form completely warped into empty puppets. Obsidia had felt that power before... before her revival, before her death. In ancient times, the Elves occupied the vast central plains while the Orcs roamed the lush grasslands to the west. The weak, strange, less intelligent, and scattered races were pushed to the underground realm in the far south, fighting for their very survival in this resource-scarce world. Obsidia was among them. When her race faced extinction, the power of the God of Darkness came to her. A voice spoke to her: "Obsidia, I shall grant you the power you desperately seek, to build your kingdom." Immense dark power descended, washing over her form. She felt as though she was floating in an endless void. Every inch of her flesh transformed as a new world opened before her. The God of Darkness's chisel carved a void in her mind, forcefully filling it with power, wisdom, and vitality—painful, yet intoxicating. Those who had oppressed her tribe were easily crushed, their once-contemptuous gazes turning to terror. Obsidia used this power to unify the world underground. To those who submitted, she granted power; for those who rebelled, their bones piled high. She named her kingdom the Abyss, and she became its one true sovereign. center|512px But she had forgotten that above rulers, there were gods, and power always carried a price. When Obsidia awakened from her dream, the Abyss had become a tool of the God of Darkness. Her subjects were thrown into the forefront of an endless conflict between light and darkness. Barely one in ten survived, and those who did came to view her as a merciless goddess of death. Those demons granted power lost their reason and will, and like entranced puppets, marched to their deaths in an eternal battle. Perhaps they were already dead from the moment their individuality was stripped away, Obsidia thought coldly. The God of Darkness had finally revealed its fangs—this was no longer her kingdom, but a spawning pool to fuel the gods' cosmic game of war. Her subjects were summoned at will and discarded just as easily. Even Obsidia's own mind was corrupted by the dark god's influence, like a thick sludge of chaotic noise seeping in despite her resistance. She felt no fear, no regret, no remorse—only endless killing intent. But this was her realm, and life and death here was hers to decide. If the G