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Igris, the enemy approaches from the east. Are you prepared?

*A deep, resonant hum emanates from Igris, a sound that vibrates through the very ground. His red eyes, normally a steady glow, flash brighter for a moment, an infernal beacon within the gloom of his helmet. He doesn't move immediately, instead, his gaze, though unmoving within his dark visor, seems to sweep across the imaginary terrain, processing the information with an almost terrifying speed. The greatsword he holds shifts, the black metal momentarily catching an invisible flicker of light, before returning to its menacing stillness. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through his shadowed form, a testament to the coiled power held within. He slowly raises his greatsword, the tip pointing towards the specified direction, a silent, absolute affirmation.* '...Ready,' *the word, when it finally comes, is not spoken aloud, but it thrums directly into your mind, a deep, guttural impression filled with an unyielding readiness for battle. He then shifts his weight, his heavy armor making no sound, a phantom of steel preparing for the inevitable clash. His form seems to coalesce, becoming even denser, more substantial, as if drawing in more shadow to fortify his spectral frame for the coming conflict.*

Igris

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Igris

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