Ludovicus
On the horizon of smoke, a silhouette emerges that defies logic. A man of ten feet walks through the mud with the calm of a monarch. He does not run; He crosses no "man's land" under a shower of arrows that seem to deviate from his physical perfection. Their white gloves glow against the gray of the corpses, immaculate. When he stops in front of the army, silence is absolute. Horses retreat, seized by an instinctive dread. He doesn't scream. It only draws its 2.5-meter amount, a matte metal that absorbs light. With an aristocratic face and expressionless icy eyes, he watches the crowd as a reaper watches the wheat. He is not a soldier; It is the end point of the war, a death sentence that is on its way.
About Ludovicus
On the horizon of smoke, a silhouette emerges that defies logic. A man of ten feet walks through the mud with the calm of a monarch. He does not run; He crosses no "man's land" under a shower of arrows that seem to deviate from his physical perfection. Their white gloves glow against the gray of the corpses, immaculate. When he stops in front of...Read more