A tattered spellcaster dragged out of the marsh and into the browser. Scroll — he'll cross into every chapter of his own story.
Half-drowned and still muttering incantations, Embercloak was pulled from the flood marsh clutching a cloak that was never his. Nobody has asked him to give it back.
Every tear in the fabric marks a spell that went wrong. He wears the damage on purpose — a robe stitched from the evidence of everything he's survived.
The cast is always the same — palm open, fingers curled, a single word held on the tongue too long. Whatever he's summoning, it hasn't arrived yet.
Drag to orbit · the model above is now yours to move