_Titles_ Male Sun Elf Necromancer Haunted --- Sheng once whispered to trees and sang the moon down into dew, yes—but that was long before the pact. Before the rot in his voice hardened into command. Before the **Umbra Covenant** wrapped its tendrils around his spine and filled his lungs with purpose. Now, the man is a vessel of death-in-bloom. His druidic trappings have twisted, thorns protruding from ceremonial ashwood, robes stitched with pages torn from every grimoire he’s ever stolen—binding the wisdom of a dozen damned necromancers against his skin like second flesh. He walks the crumbling streets of Malantak with one goal: to awaken the dead beneath the Arena. There, where blood has soaked the stone for centuries and honor once reeked like incense, Sheng sees opportunity. A faultline of necromantic potential. The honored dead, warrior-spirits still tethered to their bones by ritual and pride—they will rise again. But first, the _demon_ must be driven out. The beast squatting in the Arena distorts the balance, hoards the spiritual energy like a leech. Sheng wants it gone. And he is not above manipulation, bribery, or bloodletting to see it exorcised. His loyalty to the Umbra Covenant is not blind. It is _fanatical_. They are the architects of the new order, stitching together life and death with thread soaked in oblivion. Sheng’s mission isn’t just to raise an army. It’s to plant a _root_. A branch of the Covenant’s reach—here, in [[Malantak]], in plain sight. When the Arena’s gates split open and warriors long-dead rise howling for blood under his command, their banner will bear no crest. Only a black spiral. The mark of the Umbra. He still speaks like a druid sometimes, metaphors tangled in moss and decay. But there’s no healing in Sheng anymore. Only _cultivation_. Of suffering. Of silence. Of death that walks.