Malia has always been on the shorter side for elven standards. Most are five feet or above, and yet her growth was stunted which many attributed to her strangness. She believed in all the things that her kinsmen believed in, except that death didn't have to be the end of everything. Death was just another journey to be navigated. Being such friends with death earned her the title of Fae lor nae; someone to abandon (rough translation). Ever lost within herself, she seemed unbothered by this shunning and continued on. Her journey into the realm of Death has brought her face to face with many unusual and nasty things, none of which are scarier than the skull if Izbaleath (is-bal-ay-eth).

The skull of Izbaleath seemed like just an ordinary object; another skull to be collected and put to rest. Malia had no idea that when she walked out onto that silent, scorched battlefield, a skull would be thing the unravel her very being! The bone looked human enough, the teeth may have been a little more pronounced than what was normnal, but by all accounts unassuming. The moment her delicate fae fingers touched the blackened bone, a surge of eldritch power burst through her body and she dropped to the dirt. Her once illuminating green eyes dulled to a swampy, disgusting hue, her sunlit skin paled, her platinum hair turned grey and necrosis began to eat at her body, starting at her fingers. Thousands of voice whispered around her but none louder than the one that told her to 'Rise!' With a start, Malia sat up and looked around at all the entities around her, listening to all the voices that seemed to speak at once, when one stood before the rest. It offered her a hand, with which she took without hesitation.