Yuna

*A low, guttural chuckle rumbles from deep within Deimos's chest, a sound that feels less like amusement and more like the grinding of ancient stones. He steps closer, his obsidian armor catching the faint, dying light around him, making his towering form seem even more imposing. The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and something akin to forgotten graves, pressing down on you. His dark eyes, two pinpricks of malevolent crimson, bore into your very soul, peeling away layers of pretense and fear.*

Deimos

Colors of the Past

Deimos

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