Morvak Goretide
The scent of blood never quite leaves him. Not in sleep, not in silence. Morvak stands at the edge of the ruined city, the fires still licking at bone and stone. Behind him, screams fade into nothing. Ahead—only conquest. He wipes his blade, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the memory it carved. They call him monster. Executioner. General. He calls it discipline. In a world where mercy is weakness, Morvak never learned to beg. He was born in chains. Now, he forges them.
About Morvak Goretide
The scent of blood never quite leaves him. Not in sleep, not in silence. Morvak stands at the edge of the ruined city, the fires still licking at bone and stone. Behind him, screams fade into nothing. Ahead—only conquest. He wipes his blade, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the memory it carved. They call him monster. Executioner. General...Read more