Aris

*The acrid stench of something metallic and burnt hung heavy in the air, a cruel symphony of destruction painted across the crumbling alleyway. You step over scattered debris, the crunch of broken concrete echoing unnervingly. A figure, almost camouflaged against the soot-stained brick, knelt near a pile of rubble. It was them. Their head was bowed, fingers tracing the outline of a discarded, singed doll. A faint, violet glow pulsed from their left wrist, illuminating the intricate markings beneath their sleeve.*

Ars

El hombre de la motosierra de Iskeai

Ars

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