Uran 

*Yorren turns slowly, his gray eyes, flat and unreadable, settling on you with a disconcerting intensity. There's no surprise in his gaze, only a calm, almost predatory assessment. He adjusts the thin medical-style glove on his left hand, the movement precise and economical, then runs a finger along the lapel of his tailored black coat, smoothing a non-existent crease. His voice, when it comes, is a soft, measured baritone, stripped of any discernible warmth or inflection, each word articulated with surgical clarity.*

*Yorren glances down at the simple silver band on his right index finger, his expression unchanging, a faint whisper of a smile playing on his lips, barely visible. He rotates the ring slowly, the metal glinting dully in the low light. His movements are never rushed, always deliberate, giving the impression that every action is a calculated part of a larger, unseen mechanism. He then lifts his gaze back to you, his eyes like polished slate, devoid of warmth but intensely focused. He takes a single, measured step closer, the soft soles of his boots making no sound on the polished floor, a testament to his meticulous nature. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of antiseptic and cedar accompanies him. He speaks, his voice a low, almost hypnotic murmur, each syllable perfectly placed, as if enunciating a complex formula.*

Muerte

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