The Haruspex is oracle, altar, and madwoman. She is a prophet of the Anatomists who claims to speak not for the Fleshsmith, but as her. Her visions come not from stars or spirits, but from the patterns of organs, the curve of ribs, the pulse of bile across an open wound. Her words are chaos given voice. Her prophecies emerge from twitching gut and blood-soaked trance. They make no sense, until they do.

She has torn herself open more times than any can count. Her hands, slick with her own viscera, shape her body like a sculptor rearranging clay. Her organs have been removed and replaced, repatterned into something new. Her stitches crawl. Her wounds breathe. Beneath her skin, something moves with dreadful intent.

She dances through blood-lit corridors, entrails looped around her arms, her cloak stitched from the faces of the dead. Her chants surge in cadence, part gibberish, part revelation. She speaks in omens that cut deeper than knives, sermons of anguish that strike like truth. When she laughs, the blood flows. When she weeps, the order listens. She is not sane, but she is sacred.