Zartanica (32mm, 75mm), pre-supported.

The only sound in the moonlit graveyard was the soft rustle of a crimson cloak and the faint clink of ancient plate armor. Zartanica moved with an unnatural, predatory grace, her face hidden behind the impassive steel of her helmet, itself shrouded in a deep hood. In her gauntleted right hand, she carried her legacy—a slender, one-handed longsword of noble make, its blade etched with runes that seemed to drink the pale light. On her left arm, a heavy shield bore the faded heraldry of a house long forgotten by the living. She was a monument to a dead lineage, a knight errant who served a forever night. She did not hunt for sustenance alone, but for vengeance against the mortal realm that had exiled her kind to the shadows, her sword thirsting for the blood of those who would desecrate the memories of the old nobility.

A twig snapped in the darkness, followed by the panicked breath of a grave robber. Zartanica turned her helmeted head, the void within her visor focusing on the intruder. There was no battle cry, only a silent, fluid advance, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like a wave of blood. The robber raised a shovel in a pathetic defense, but it was shattered by a single, contemptuous blow from her shield. She did not feed upon him immediately. Instead, she stood over his trembling form, a silent judge from a bygone era. The noble longsword rose, not for a swift kill, but to deliver a lesson in fear—the final, terrifying privilege of her extinct house, administered in the cold, eternal dark.