[@Paradoxial] Here she is. Hope it's all to your liking.

[hider=Adila Al Bakira]
[center][h2][b][u][color=fff79a]Adi[/color][color=fdc68a]la A[/color][color=f9ad81]l Bak[/color][color=f7976a]ira[/color][/u][/b][/h2][/center]
[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/28e6d3ff-8f02-4985-8919-ffee7ca339e4.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][i][color=fff79a]|| This one has endured the h[/color][color=fdc68a]eat of death once before, and kno[/color][color=f9ad81]ws the ways of survi[/color][color=f7976a]ving that sweltering desert. ||[/color][/i][/center]

[center][b][color=fff79a][u]C L A S S[/u][/color][/b]
[color=fdc68a]Priest[/color]
[sup][color=f7976a][i]"My faith is the force that binds the sands into the dunes."[/i][/color][/sup]

[color=fff79a][u][b]D E V O T I O N[/b][/u][/color]
[color=fdc68a]Shee'l Tor[/color]
[sup][i][color=f7976a]"The trials of death have forged me into his capable weapon."[/color][/i][/sup]

[color=fff79a][u][b]S P E L L   L I S T[/b][/u][/color][/center]

[color=f7976a]2nd Tier ➤[/color] [color=f9ad81][b]"The sands will shift..."[/b][/color]
[i][color=fdc68a]Adila darts her hazel fingers into the pouch at her side, drawing a handful of chalky, tan rocks into her palm and crushing them with a swift clenching of her fist. A sickly green smoke arises from the gaps between her knuckles, and a sulfurous stench fills the room. The cracking and reshaping of flesh is suddenly audible, and you choke back your urge to vomit.[/color][/i]

[color=fff79a]Minor physical injuries are mended on an ally (such as small scrapes, bruises, or fractures). Moderate to major injuries are instead transferred to another ally of Adila's choice. Any injuries on the receiving ally are, likewise, traded. This spell cannot be cast if it would cause any ally to die, unless such an ally is Adila. Adila can target herself to receive wounds. If the receiving ally is unwilling to take on wounds, such injuries are instead brought back to effect Adila.[/color]

[color=fff79a].[/color]

[color=f7976a]2nd Tier ➤[/color] [color=f9ad81][b]"... and the sun will set."[/b][/color]
[i][color=fdc68a]Adila's spear is quickly dragged across the dim cobblestone in front of her, sparks spawning from the friction between the refined Damascus steel and dirtied earth. She sprinkles the now powdered rock out of her hand and onto this line of embers, the soft, clay-like flakes catching quickly and flaring out like firecrackers. Your mind melts with the fiery display, feeling rather pleasant until you sense the clawing, inhumane thoughts of a beast suddenly slip into your consciousness. A hulking, abyssal foe behind you screeches in harmony with the intrusion, its thick fur becoming matted in fresh maroon blood.[/color][/i]

[color=fff79a]A spiritual bond is formed between an ally and an enemy. While the two are linked, any physical injuries to the ally will also be inflicted onto the enemy, and the ally will progressively gain stress the longer the bond goes unbroken. Any damage the enemy endures will [i]not[/i] be shared with the ally. The bond breaks only if either the ally or enemy dies, or if the ally or enemy get 30 feet away from each other. If wounds are transferred to an ally through [b]"The sands will shift..."[/b], and that ally is in a spirit bond, the enemy will also sustain such wounds.[/color]

[center][b][color=fff79a][u]B A C K S T O R Y[/u][/color][/b][/center]

[color=fdc68a]Sun-baked tents, huddled in a tight ring around a shallow, muddy watering hole, weather the whipping winds of the South-Eastern deserts. Their flags, skinny and dyed in weak greens and grays, denotes the authority of a small tribe. One Julda rules over the active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name. None of these individuals are present in their quarters during this blazing evening. They are out at the looming ruins.

It is an exquisite piece of architecture, the abandoned temple standing like a testament to the superiority of some long-forgotten civilization. A quiet cult inside, consisting of nearly twenty people in bumble-bee colored robes, panics in a fit of realization. They have been surrounded by a Julda ruling over an active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name.

The crude altars to Shee'l Tor are overturned in a sudden rush of men, sand being kicked up and whisked around in a room now clogged with chaotic shouts. Gold tokens forged in the god's image are ripped from velvety threads, baskets of incense crunched beneath the soles of thick leather boots. As the sun begins to rest in the crimson pool of the horizon, the remaining cultists have been rounded up and bound together with abrasive lengths of frayed rope. All robed men have been slain on the spot, their corpses now piled in a wide corner of the temple. Women are tied in a line that will make them easier for transport. Every good even remotely valuable has been seized. To the Julda, this is a righteous raid on a cult that exemplifies their evil god. It does not matter that they found no weapons.

The moon illuminates the sorrows of the survivors, their shock and despair contrasted by the cheerful drinking of tribe warriors all around them. They are constantly harassed throughout the night, their stifled sobs interrupted by the sharp quips and unwanted advances of stupidly merry men. The Julda approaches an especially fair cultist, his arrogance leading him to pull up her hood and force unto her a kiss. She, in tear-choked retaliation, spits on his face. Embarrassment seizes him as the warriors around him begin to laugh.

The fair woman, named Adila, is commanded to be made an example of, as to ensure the subservience of all her fellow cultists. A pole is quickly struck into the compact sand, and tinder from the temple is clumped around it. Adila is restrained to the pole, and watches as the bushels of dried plants around her begin to catch flame at the Julda's command. Acrid smoke surrounds her as she squirms, the heat of the fire crawling closer to her long robe. She cries out for mercy, for forgiveness, and wails as silence accompanies the crackling of the flames. Finally, with the tendrils of heat now creeping up against her reddening flesh, she pleads for Shee'l Tor to intervene.[/color]

[center][color=f7976a]The last grains of sand have begun to drain from the top of the hourglass, one life filtering down into the next, the usefulness of the first methodically feeding into the second. Yet, a gnarled hand reaches out and grasps the divine teller of all time, and with a sudden flick flips the structure. The course of the sands have been switched, as the patron of death so wills it.[/color][/center]
[color=fdc68a]The sensation and terror of immolation leaves Adila, and she no longer feels tears upon her face. Yet, she still sees herself, burning there, screaming out incoherently. She looks down to her body in sudden disbelief; she is a strong, tan woman in tribal warrior gear. Her grip is firm on her spear, and her feet lay solid in the loose ground. The warriors around her are silent as they continue to watch her previous body become consumed and shrivel up in a column of flames. The smell and the sounds drive her to vomit on the pale ground in front of her.

Her family and friends sold off and nowhere to be found, and having stolen a secretive call to arms from the tribe's Julda, Adila is now adamant on claiming the soul of the Mad King Osidius in the name of Shee'l Tor. For the miracle of her revival, she will present her patron with an equal payment, and secure her place as a worthy champion.

That is, if Shee'l Tor doesn't collect his debt early...[/color]
[/hider]