Origins

To whom it may concern,

I am Violet Fang, and these pages are my tale.

From a young age, the arcane fascinated me. While my siblings were
busy stealing anything shiny they could get their paws on, I had my
whiskers buried in old tomes at the nearby library—not far from the
church where we lived.

The priest who ran the church, a human, said he had found us—mere
kittens—huddled in a wooden crate in a nearby alley. He raised us as
his own. I don’t remember his name, nor what god he worshipped. We
simply called him Father, as everyone else did.

By the age of seven, I had cast my first Mage Hand. Impressed, Father
gave me two items: a spellbook bound in black dragonscale, and a
dagger as dark as night. Its hilt bore the same strange symbol as the
one on his pendant—likely a holy emblem of his god. I tried to refuse,
but he was insistent. How he afforded such treasures, I’ll never know.

My siblings cried favoritism. But they fell silent when Father shouted
back, listing the endless thefts and trouble they'd caused over the
years.

As time passed, the church fell quiet. Fewer visitors. More silence. I
spent my days studying in the library and my nights practicing
harmless cantrips, or talking with Father and my siblings. But the town
never accepted us. I believe it was our fur—our kind—and the
reputation my siblings had earned.

By thirteen, the church saw no visitors at all.

At seventeen, everything burned.

I was returning to the church after a late evening study session. Smoke
stained the sky. Flames consumed the building. I ran—feline grace
carrying me through collapsing halls—until I found Father, sprawled on
the altar, bloodied and motionless. Dagger wounds covered his chest.

I barely had time to grieve before a burning beam crashed onto my left
arm, pinning me. The fire crept closer. Desperation surged through me.
I drew the dagger Father had given me and began cutting. As the
flames licked the blade, they turned deep violet. The dagger sliced
cleanly through flesh and bone. My arm was gone—but I was free.

I sprinted from the inferno, leaping over my siblings’ bloodied bodies.

As I landed in the street, the building collapsed behind me. My arm—
cauterized from the heat—was gone. The townsfolk stared in horror.
Then, they turned their backs.

I sat in the ash until morning, numb and hollow. A guard eventually told
me to get off the street. I said nothing and walked to the library—my
last refuge.

There, I crafted my first spell. A modification of Mage Hand, tailored to

my missing limb: stronger, more persistent—but less flexible. My new
arcane limb was cold to the touch, but it served its purpose.

That night, I returned to the ruins. I dug through ashes, seeking

anything—any clue. Nothing remained. Not even bodies. Then came the
guards. Surrounded by townsfolk, one barked that I was no longer
welcome. They threw rocks.

I fled into the forest.

The Book and the Arm

In the woods, something changed. I came to understand the one truth

of the world: everything—man, god, beast—dies. I accepted it.

Three years passed.

While hunting, I stumbled upon a strange sight: a stone table in a

clearing. A book rested atop it. Hooded skeletons lay around the altar,
unmoving. As I stepped forward, the forest fell silent.
The book's cover read:

“Only those who understand life, loss, and death may read the pages of
this tome.”

A skull was etched into the leather. I reached for it with my left arm. A
curse burst forth—green flames surging—but it passed over me. The
limb was magical. Untouched. The curse had no target.

Then, the flames turned violet and engulfed my right arm. It burned to
bone… but I felt no pain.

The skeletons rose.

I pointed at one. “Kneel,” I commanded.

It obeyed.

Then crumbled.

The others followed.

When I turned back, a folded robe now sat on the altar. Deep violet trim
matched my eyes and magic. It fit perfectly, even the hood having slits
for my ears.

I donned it.

I cast an illusion to hide the skeletal arm. And I walked. Through

forests. Through sorrow. Through flame.

Until I reached the next town. And the next.

And I never stopped walking.

On Companionship and Cadavers

I have, for now, aligned myself with a group of adventurers. Not out of
trust—never again—but out of calculated necessity.

The first was a war machine with the guise of a man. A fighter—blunt,
direct, unyielding. Efficient in battle. No blood to spill, but potentially
salvageable materials should his usefulness end.

Then came the bird. A monk, feathered and fast. He speaks in riddles
and detached musings—perhaps wisdom, perhaps nonsense.
Lightweight. Agile. Useful.

The third—a vampire. A noblewoman. Graceful, unapologetic, and

utterly in control of her condition. She speaks with eloquence and acts
with authority, never once hiding what she is. There is power in her
poise. Arrogance, yes—but earned. I find her presence... stable. She is a
being who knows her nature and embraces it.

Together, we travel the frozen north. Cold winds. Colder people. I walk
behind them—quiet, unnoticed. They bleed first. They draw attention.
They die first, if it comes to that.

More recently, we were joined by a lizardfolk druid. Ancient in spirit,

primal in thought. It communes with nature as if it were a sibling,
calling upon beasts and bark alike. I do not pretend to understand it,
only to tolerate it. It seems to like me. I haven’t decided yet if I
consider that a threat.

They do not ask about the arm beneath the illusion.

They will. Eventually.

On Gods and Graves

Before the druid, before the reptile’s root-whispers joined our ranks, we
witnessed something... monumental.

A god died.

Not a metaphor. Not a myth. A Titan—one of the world’s great divine

architects—was felled before our eyes. Not by mortal hands, but by
others of its kind.

They did not whisper. They did not hesitate. They executed it.

I do not know the Titan’s name. I do not care to. Names are for the
living, for those still clinging to identity and ego. This being—whatever
power it once held—died just like anything else. Bled, just like anything
else. Screamed, just like anything else.

I watched divinity die, and I felt nothing.

Perhaps awe was expected. Reverence. Fear. My companions reacted in

their ways—shocked, awestruck, questioning.

But for me, it was affirmation.

Gods are not exempt. Even the grandest threads can be cut.

The flames that took Father, the dagger that cut through my arm, the
book in the woods—they were all signs. But this? This was proof.

Everything dies. Even gods.

I did not speak of it. I did not write until now. But I remember the sound
its body made when it hit the earth.

It was not thunder. It was not divine.

It was meat.

Before the Threshold

They still do not know.

I have walked among them, silent as ash, patient as winter. They speak
of honor, of hope, of gods who watch. I listen. I nod. I say what is
necessary.

But the truth grows restless.

The arm I wear is no mere prosthetic—it is a promise. A thread

connected to something far older and colder than life. Each time I call
upon it, I feel its presence flicker. Not intrusive. Not loud. Just...
waiting.

Soon, I will act. The battlefield will leave behind more than bodies—it
will offer opportunities.

I do not know how they will respond when I raise the dead. Curiosity?
Disgust? Fear? Perhaps all three. Perhaps none.

It does not matter.

When the moment comes, I will cross that threshold. Not in hiding. Not
in shame.

I will raise them openly.

And I will see who still walks beside me afterward.