Zaria Dreadmoor
the Deeproot Countess
Named for the ancient peat bogs that hold the bones of lost armies, and the dread that settles into the ground where nothing grows.
Power
you speak to buried things — roots, bones, stone — and they answer in the slow tongue of ages. Each conversation steals a year of your memory, and you have forgotten more than you recall.
- Familiar
- a pale millipede named Slate
- Bloodline
- House Dreadmoor
You are counting the rings of a fallen oak, the one that grew through the iron gate of your first grave. You have been counting for three centuries. The roots remember the shape of your fingers.