Lurking below the current, she thirsts until others come to drink.

Rakdos cultists hanged her for sport in the township square. Her ghost now stands vigil at what has become known as the Tree of Weeping.

“Look at her, once filled with innocence. Death has a way of wringing away such … deficiencies.”
—Savra

Each small blaze she sets jogs her memory, letting her piece together the mystery of her own fiery end.

“No more wretched fate is there than to waste away. If you are slain, your ghost may at least avenge itself upon your killer. But what release is there for one slain by Time?”
—Ilromov, traveling storyteller