Summoned from the drowned catacombs beneath the Abyssal Foundries, the Blackwater Bomb-Witch is a mute herald of annihilation. No voice escapes her sealed helm, no flesh is seen beneath her armor — only black, ornate plating gleaming with the void’s shimmer, and a heavy cloak that unfurls like tattered sails in a storm.
Whether she is truly alive is a matter of dark speculation. Some say she was forged like a cannon — a soul shackled in chains of salt and infernal fire , her will drowned before her body was ever formed. But all agree on one truth: when her hand reaches into the blackness, the air tears open — a slick, oil-black rift yawns wide, and from it she pulls her cursed payload .
These bombs are not mere munitions — they are blasphemies, bound in iron. They scream as they fly, echoing the hunger of the Gourmands who birthed them. Each blast leaves a crater that hisses with brine and sin a scorched wound in the earth where the veil grows thin and the drowned dead stir beneath the waves.
She speaks not. She halts for no one. She drifts through broken shores and shattered decks of war, casting death with ritual precision — a witch born of tides, forever tethered to the will of the Gluttons of the Abyss.
