I used to have a heartbeat. I use to be an artisan, creating all this beutiful human like Manikin, artistically beutiful, in porcelain and gold, but then this demon struck. It didn't just kill me—it harvested me, stripping away my flesh, my blood, and my warmth for some abyssal ritual.

Left as nothing but a drifting consciousness on the verge of oblivion, I desperately grasped onto the nearest physical object: one of my lifeless manikin in the corner of the workshop. The sheer force of my will, mixed with the residual, bleeding magic of the demon's ritual, bound my soul to the porcelain and metal.

I woke up heavy, rigid, and silent. The demon left me behind as a cruel joke, but the cosmic energy required to anchor a soul into dead material opened a conduit. Now draw magical power directly from the veil of the outer planes—either by siphoning the demon’s residual energy or through a desperate bargain struck with a higher power to keep my new wooden heart beating.

All that left, me hunting back this infernal creature to recover my body.

At a distance, I look like an ordinary tailor's dummy or an unfinished artist's model. Up close, the horror and beauty of your existence become clear:

My body if delicate crafted in fine material and gold. The gold Stitched into across my chest are glowing, branding runes left behind by the demon. These runes bleed a faint, dark mist when cast my warlock spells.

In my delicate face, a mounth that never move or smile. In place of eyes, two glowing embers of arcane light emerald green, burn deep within the smooth, featureless porcelain head, shifting in intensity based on my mood.