Osla is an Aasimar of haunting beauty, with skin as pale as marble and veins that seem to shimmer with a faint, violet light. Her hair is cropped short and silvered, and her eyes lack pupils, shining like solid pearls. She wears dark, ink stained robes over her silvered scale mail, and she always smells faintly of old parchment and funeral incense.

She is soft spoken and disturbingly calm in the face of carnage. Osla treats death with the same meticulous care a scholar treats a library, often tidying the hair of fallen enemies or whispering gentle comforts to those passing on. She finds little joy in violence but sees it as a necessary pruning of the garden of life.

Osla was once a rising star in a prestigious military academy, a war mage whose intellect promised to reshape the front lines. During a border war, her entire unit was annihilated by a magical surge she failed to prevent. For days, she lay trapped beneath the debris, surrounded by the rotting remains of her colleagues. In the silence of that mass grave, she heard the whisper of the Reaper. The vanity of war magic felt hollow, and she realized her true calling was not to create death, but to curate it. She abandoned the arcane scrolls for the rites of the Grave. Now, she wanders battlefields not to win wars, but to ensure that the souls of the departed reach their rest without being disturbed or rising again. Her low physical constitution is a mark of the necrotic toll she took during those days in the dirt, but her divine spirit remains unbreakable.