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When battle is joined, Xandera does not scream nor charge like a savage; she invites the apocalypse with a raised hand and a smile veiled in velvet malice.

From her palm, or from the very air around her, she exhales the Black Miasma of Dread—a thick, tarry mist drenched in necromantic rot, black as spilled ink, glistening as though slick with oil.

It slithers low across the ground, curling around the ankles of the living like a lover's caress, seeping into pores, lungs, and veins.

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Exposure to this cursed smog inflicts a creeping death, unfolding over time as follows:

• Turn 1: Victims experience a chill in the marrow, a slight numbness at the extremities.

• Turn 2: Breathing grows shallow, small hemorrhages appear beneath the skin like blossoming bruises.

• Turn 3: Muscles weaken, vision blurs, strength ebbs as though the soul itself is draining away.

• Turn 4: Death claims them—a collapse into spasmodic stillness, the body pliant and ready for resurrection.

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Should the miasma take root without intervention—be it healing, purification, or escape—death is certain by the fourth cycle. From these fallen, Xandera summons her blackened tendrils, oil-slick and writhing, threading through bone and sinew to resurrect the corpse into her undying legion. Each new thrall bears the glistening sheen of her will, their hollow eyes gazing upon her with blind adoration.

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"Why should rot be the end, when it could be your beginning beneath me?" 

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The lich queen does not simply cling to life — she drinks it. Her flesh, seemingly untouched by time’s decay, remains warm, supple, and incandescent not through magic spells alone, but through the siphoning of vitality from those around her. With every breath shared near her, with every gaze foolishly held too long, with every heartbeat spent in her shadow, a fragment of vitality bleeds invisibly into her waiting hands.

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This stolen essence is not devoured crudely. It is woven into the lattice of her body—stitching torn tissue, polishing the luster of her skin, rekindling the golden furnace of her eyes. In Xandera, youth and strength are not passive gifts of undeath; they are tribute, paid by the living without even knowing they kneel.

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"Your heart beats for me. Your marrow warms my skin. You will not notice until you are hollow—and I, ever in bloom."