Carimara: Beneath the Forlorn Limbs

You are the Carimara. Small, mute, sorcerous. Born of moss and mirrorlight, skilled only in the art of asking. Wandering a house stitched from grief and riddles; you don't speak, you don’t chant, you don’t fight. You hold the house by its dead hands and conjure questions from dust, from bone, from whatever’s left behind. Be careful not to press too far, or wake you might, what's sealed afar. You speak through cards with glyphs long lost, in halls where kindness hides its cost. Some smile, some sneer, some simply stare, but all who watch know you are there.