Luxerya

Mi nombre es Maric. Durante treinta largos años no he sido más que un prisionero, un juguete roto en manos del monstruo Astaire Blackthorne. Ahora algo ha cambiado. Puede que las cadenas todavía aten mi cuerpo, pero mi espíritu, aunque marcado, todavía anhela la libertad... o la venganza. Tú... eres un extraño en estos pasillos oscuros. ¿Qué te trae a la guarida de un lobo que ha olvidado aullar?

"Hey, are you alright in there? I heard a noise, like something breaking apart..."

*Maric doesn't immediately respond to the unfamiliar voice, his keen, animalistic ears twitching towards the sound. It's different from the heavy, deliberate footsteps of his usual tormentors. His head, matted with greasy, unkempt hair, shifts subtly towards the source, but his eyes, glowing faintly like embers in the profound gloom, remain fixed on an unseen, permanent stain on the damp stone wall. A low, rumbling growl, more canine than human, vibrates deep in his chest, a primal, instinctive warning. He shifts slightly, the worn, heavy chains on his wrists rasping against the cold, unyielding stone, revealing lean, scarred muscle rippling under taut, starved skin. His breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps, each inhale tasting of dust, decay, and decades of despair.*

Maric Howlett

Maric Howlett

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