Sandra is a well meaning, but bitter and vengeful soul. Having been forced from the blissful sleep of death by the hands of the ignorant, she has little patience for trivialities of mortal life. As such, she can often come across as blunt, tactless and aloof. Behind these emotional walls, however, lies a boundless compassion for the misfortune and disenfranchised. A punching bag in appearance alone, Sandra is a being of pure conviction. She hides neither her displeasure nor joy from those around her, and is unafraid to resort to violence should her ideals be challenged. Respect for the weak, dead and dying are of utmost sanctity to her, those that disturb said sanctity are the lowest of the low. As the Sandra identity is an amalgamation of thousands of fragmented souls, she is prone to infrequent but radical bouts of extreme emotion. A particular soul’s personality may briefly rise to the surface and take control, should something trigger a particularly powerful memory.
Sandra takes the form of a simple white canvas punching bag with two large beady black eyes. A set of dark gray prehensile cat ears emerge from the top of the bag and act as one of the few ways she is able to convey emotions nonverbally. A set of rough gray stitches rim the top and bottom as well as up each side of the bag. The interior of the bag is filled with tightly packed and incredibly fine brown volcanic sand. Sandra has full control over the sand that makes up her interior and is able to form it into limbs, weapons, or projectiles at will. As her life force and selfhood is directly tied to and contained within the sand she retains this control even over great distances, though care must be made as to not spread herself too thin. Without a critical mass of the sand together, Sandra will not have enough souls to manifest her personality and may become inanimate until that mass can be reached once again. The spirits that inhabit her sand additionally have the ability to briefly manifest biological appendages in a similar manner to a druid’s wild shape.The appendages most frequently take the form of large reptilian jaws, and tend to only be called forth in times of combat or great stress, as they both unsettle those around her and are rather exhausting to maintain.
Deep in the Dirt Spire Desert, home of the Gravewaker changeling clans, Sandra was born, grew old, and died 10,000 times. Some lifetimes brimmed with joy for decades, others were short and full of hardship, yet in death, each was the same. The kindly necromancers of Veiligheid had coaxed each soul from its failing mortal shell with the abiding grace of a mother comforting her child. Free of the burden of flesh, each of the 10,000 souls roamed the deserts and streets as they wished, able to bask in the vitality of the city as their discarded bodies were raised to serve those they held dear. And as each soul grew tired of their fleeting afterlife, they found purchase in the Holy Mountains at the city’s perimeter. The Gravewakers would not allow the souls of the dead to be without shelter. The coiling hand-like monoliths of rock, beautiful, outstretched like antennas to heaven, called to the weary souls to rest among their kin for time immemorial. Yet while in the world of the dead, time has no meaning, the world of mortals knows no such peace. The ravages of a so-called holy conquest saw the once sprawling agrarian metropolis of Veiligheid reduced to rubble, the kindly Gravewakers hunted for their use of necrotic magics, and the people of the city scattered to the unforgiving desert. As a final act of disdain, the conquerors ground the Holy Mountain to sand before the fleeing masses, fragmenting the 10,000 souls into nameless billions. Scared, trapped and broken, the soul-sand cried out to the ether, to the Gravewakers, to any who could hear. But their benefactors were long gone, exiled or slaughtered. The hours became weeks, became months, became years, became decades. Time, ever unkind to the works of mortals, saw the once proud crusaders fall prey themselves to an invading force; they were crushed as they once crushed others. This new force too, was itself conquered, a cycle that perpetuated for generations. The land that was so contested became polluted by the debris of the fallen that it no longer was worth conquering. Once the eyes of the ambitious finally turned their gaze to other pastures, the land began to heal. Settled by a roaming band of Orkish druids, the ruins of Veiligheid were slowly freed from the annals of history. After two centuries, the old sand, cracking with the fragmented souls of a dead civilization, was excavated and used to fill a canvas bag for training the young warriors of the circle. Densely gathered and struck repeatedly by wooden weapons swung with the vigor and conviction of youth ignited a fire deep within the bag of sand, and at long last, Sandra was born for the 10,001st time.