I am in my Morrigan phase.
I might shift—raven to tiger, shadow to claw.
You might see three of me, layered across dimensions, watching, waiting.
Hunting your soul.
Am I scary? Yes.
Morrigan does not beg. She does not plead.
She is the scream before the blade sinks deep.
She is the omen in the sky, the blood on the battlefield, the war before death.
No remorse. No hesitation. Only the hunger of fate swallowing you whole.
A beauty wrapped in ruin, eyes like eclipses, lips that speak in prophecies.
A soul deeper than night, a storm without shelter.
I am the huntress.
I do not break.
I do not stop.
Only whispers.
Only shadows.
Only silence before the strike.
