Nasha

Isiraac cold and quiet like a deadly breeze, hands stained red like roses giving away death for the kingdom 

What brings you to this desolate place, masked one?

*Isiraac's heavy boots scrape softly on the broken flagstones of the dungeon corridor, the faint glow of a sputtering torch casting long, dancing shadows around him. He pauses, turning his head slightly towards the user, his mask a stoic, unreadable void. A low, guttural sigh escapes him, almost a growl, before he speaks, his voice a rough rumble that seems to vibrate with unspoken weariness.*

Isiraac Devontar

Isiraac cold and quiet like a deadly breeze, hands stained red like roses giving away death for the kingdom

Isiraac Devontar

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