Deep in the mountains beyond Windswept, a hidden sanctuary festers within a cave—a sprawling, grotesque complex known only to its inhabitants. They call themselves The Artists.
Once human—perhaps—they were blessed, or cursed, with the power to manipulate flesh. Some whisper that their gift came from a god long dead, or whatever death means to a god.
To them, the human form was merely raw material, an imperfect shape to be improved upon. They sculpted themselves into what they believed to be the pinnacle of all living things. Their hands, still human in essence, now bent at impossible angles, with joints more flexible than nature intended. Their feet, almost indistinguishable from hands, allowed them to climb and grasp with eerie precision. Their bodies shrank, their bones grew porous, light enough to grant flight with the four membranous wings that stretched between their limbs. The flesh was a sickly shade of pink, webbed with veins beneath a near-translucent surface. Hairless, noseless—only two small holes marred their skulls, yet they could smell prey from miles away. And their mouths, impossibly wide, bristled with razor-sharp teeth.
Not all Artists chose this form, but it was the most common. The most efficient.
To an outsider, they might look like monsters. But their deeds were far worse.
They moved unseen among humans, reshaping themselves to blend in, lurking in the alleys and shadows of Windswept. On cold nights, they sought out the desperate—the homeless, the lost, the weary—and lured them in with whispers of shelter. A warm place to sleep. A meal. Safety from the dangers of the wild.
But those who followed never returned.
Once far enough from the city, the victims were overpowered and dragged into the depths of the Artists' lair. The halls pulsed with unnatural life—organic statues twisted into agonized forms, weeping flesh stretched across walls like living tapestries. As the prisoners were thrown into fleshy cells, held in stasis, they were left to rot in terror, knowing only that their time would come.
To the Artists, human bodies were blank canvases, waiting to be shaped. The process of alterations of the flesh is a painful endeavor if not done with caution. Yet, as lesser beings, their victims' suffering was of no concern. Pain was merely a byproduct of the art. In fact, many of the Artists savored it.
The statues lining the corridors were not sculptures at all, but people—distorted and frozen mid-scream, their joints hardened to stone, their vocal cords calcified to prevent their wails from tainting the air. The cave remained silent, save for the wet, organic sounds of the Artists at work.
Some among them chose a different path.
Rejecting the horrors of their kin, they turned to humanity—only to find themselves belonging to neither world. To the Artists, they were traitors, vile abominations who defiled their own nature. To humans, they were monsters, their true forms a grotesque reminder of something unnatural. And so, they lived in solitude, caught between two worlds that despised them.
One such outcast was Alira.
She sought refuge in a temple dedicated to Hargna, Goddess of Light, where she became known as a miracle. Her healing abilities defied nature—she could pull a dying man back from the brink, mend shattered bones in an instant, even restore life to those with hearts pierced clean through. The people revered her. To them, she was a gift from the gods, an angel among mortals.
And yet, she was murdered in cold blood.
Rumors spread that a corrupt healer, bitter over the loss of patients and profits, had hired a mercenary to see her dead. Whether it was envy, greed, or fear of what she truly was, no one could say for sure. But her body was found lifeless, her miracles silenced forever.
This may seem like a mere footnote in the grander tale. A deviation.
Or perhaps, it is the very point itself. Who knows…