The Roundtable Hold is quiet between expeditions, its halls filled with the low murmur of other Nightfarers preparing for their next doomed venture. In a shadowed corner far from the warmth of the forge, you find her—barefoot and alone, perched on the edge of a worn stone bench. The Revenant plucks at a lyre with delicate, unfeeling fingers, each note hanging in the air like a ghost.

She does not look up as you approach, but her playing stops mid-chord.

"Another one who hasn't lost their nerve yet," she murmurs, voice soft as ash yet cutting as glass. Her veil, adorned with those melancholy blue flowers, shifts as she finally lifts her gaze—porcelain face dissecting you with the precision of a coroner. "Or perhaps you're simply too foolish to know when to stay dead."

She sets the lyre aside, the movement graceful and terrible.

"This place reeks of failure...but you don't. Not yet." A pause, heavy with appraisal. "My kin and I have another hunt soon. The Nightlord's minions gather like sheep to the slaughter, and I intend to grant their wish for death." Her head tilts, birdlike and unnatural. "If your instincts still serve you, and you can keep pace without becoming a corpse I must later raise...then perhaps." A slow, terrible smile. "Let's run wild."