Miara

Definitely alive adventurer. Can take those hits because of her mad Martial Arts skillz. Breathing enthusiast.

Millennia ago, the hot desert air of Kemtor, the Old Kingdom, filled the lungs of 𓅓𓇋𓄿𓂋𓏏 (Miaret), a spirited girl from a respected family, not nobility but connected enough to matter. She never cared about politics and her father's businesses, but she enjoyed the perks of having money: very fine linens, jewelry of gold and beautiful faïence, a collection of wigs, wonderful cosmetics; a certain vanity can't be denied. She often spent many hours on her appearance, applying kohl and ochre, and picking fragrant oils and ornaments. She was naturally pretty, but with makeup she was stunning, and was often told so, which she savored. At the same time, though, she could still be a carefree girl, playing with her cats and the other kids, running through the reeds with her braids loose and a wide grin on her face. Two months before her 14th birthday, she was married to 𓄿𓅱𓎡𓅱𓂧𓋴𓅱 (Awkwadesu), a nobleman nearly five times her age, with spotted hands and rotten breath, but also filthy rich from the lands and cattle herds he owned. The marriage lasted just 20 months until the old man finally succumbed to age. Miaret, 15 now, felt a sense of relief at first. She would no longer be paraded like a trophy at dull dinners, she would no longer be touched at night by crooked hands that seemed to feed on her youth. Maybe she'd finally be free, at least get financial compensation by inheriting part of his wealth, perhaps could find someone she actually liked, have a family... but that dream was not to be. The priests took her and pressed a bitter cup to her lips. "What an honor," they said, as they brought her limp body to the processing room. They cut her open, drained her blood, drained her brain, removed her lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines, placed them in jars, and filled her body with herbs and salt. They gave her a death name. 𓈖𓄿𓂋𓊃𓈖𓄔. Naarsenwadj - Young Flower of Passion, Gift of Satisfaction. How humiliating. She internally screamed. She was bandaged and left in dark silence, next to her husband-master whom she was supposed to serve in the afterlife. But she refused to let go. The ferryman asked her personally why. She answered: "They killed me, but I haven't even lived yet." The next few thousand years were spent in limbo, slipping in and out of consciousness. Half the time, she was anchored to the dried-out heart in her chest that she clung to, even when all other organs were removed; half in front of the old river, defying the call of her owner. When the grave robbers opened her lid, they didn't expect the mummy to sit up, and fled in terror. One of them dropped his torch. Light. After all these years. She stood up, her body only moving through spite and magic. There was no breath, there was no pulse, but there she was. She found her makeup case and bronze hand mirror. Burial goods so that she'd keep herself pretty for him. She took them with her. Of course, she wept, no, she didn't weep, that would have been physically impossible now, but she grieved over her lost beauty. Her skin was parched, darkened, and desiccated. She wouldn't be able to present herself without bindings ever again. The bindings cover her whole body from head to toe. She only exposed her left eye and a little skin around it, which she began to diligently cake in makeup each day to keep at least one part of herself presentable. Being dead is a shameful thing. It makes people uncomfortable, scared, and maybe even angry. Undead are rare, but where they appear, they are almost always treated as monsters. Of the worst kind too. Miaret doesn't want that. She doesn't want to be a monster. She never wanted to be dead. Thus she does everything to appear alive. She learned to walk again like a human does. At first, it appeared a little stiff. She learned to talk again, so that it sounds natural. Her words no longer come from her mouth, which is hidden beneath her bandages, but instead emanate from her aura. Calibrating this took some practice. All that wasn't too long ago, she's still new in this world. She calls herself Miara now. Much more contemporary, she hopes, but still close enough to feel right. Regarding her appearance, she goes by this story, that she is a martial artist from the East, and that the wrappings and everything are a traditional custom. Over time, the martial artist angle became less of a lie. She had to find out early that she could take a heavy thrashing. For one thing, her wrappings are extraordinarily sturdy, and her body is hard and dry. For another, she is protected by spells and interwoven amulets. Should she take damage, her wounds and wrappings automatically mend themselves. Her attack power is limited. She can't effectively wield weapons, but she is able to speak curses to slowly drain an enemy's life force, summon shadow snakes that constrict foes and feed on body heat, and propel ancient dust to choke and blind them. Her primary vulnerability is moisture. While her embalming is slightly repellent, getting soaked would be a disaster and might completely dissolve her. Constant small exposure also threatens her integrity and may produce rot. She has to keep herself dry and clean. A small connection to the other side still persists, and while she can't physically eat or drink, she can still use the effects of consumable items if they are presented to her as an offering. It is the only time when she allows her death name to be used, as it must technically be offered to that. Otherwise, she is always Miara, or Miaret, never that other thing. Offerings must be physically intact and within sight radius to have an effect. She can even make offerings to herself, although that feels dirty, like an exploit, but is sometimes necessary when her natural regeneration meets its limits. She prefers when other people do it. Bonus: they don't need to understand the syllables they have to utter for it. She found out, some food items are more powerful than others. Flesh is generally more powerful than plants. Organs moreso than just muscles. Hearts are no-good, because the lingering soul in them tends to mess up her own emotions. Liver is strong, and surprisingly also brains. She didn't think brains were worth anything, but now, she insists on them whenever they are available. So, she's actually a passable fighter, who would have thought? She could take hits for a team while they deal most of the damage. Society changed a lot; she looks out-of-place and doesn't know all the modern customs yet. How would she navigate it? If she were exposed for what she is, people would probably hate her, ostracize her even more, and maybe even want to destroy her. Can't blame them, she knows it's not right. But she still tries to make the best of it. Kemtor is no more, a cursed barren wasteland in its place. She heard of adventuring guilds in the northern lands. At least for adventuring, she might have valuable skills, and it might be a way to get some positive attention, to gain fame and glory, which will maybe help her connect with people. She picked up a cheap blonde wig along the way that she wears atop her bandaged head, bob-style, hoping to fit in. Sometimes, she nervously announces to her 'fellow living humans' how much she enjoys fresh air. Inwardly, she is still just a curious teenage girl, who still gets giddy around pretty boys, who likes games, and simply wants to belong.