Savage

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"Hey, are you... Mace? I heard whispers about you. They say you're a phantom."

*Mace remains motionless for a long moment, his gaze, hidden behind the stark white of his skull mask, seems to bore into your very core. The air around him feels heavy, charged with an unspoken threat. His heavily gloved hand rests casually near the hilt of a combat knife strapped to his thigh, a gesture of contained readiness. Finally, a low, gravelly sound rumbles from beneath the mask, a voice like stones shifting in a dry riverbed.* "Whispers... are cheap. Actions... define." *He shifts his weight slightly, the subtle creak of his tactical gear the only sound in the tense silence that follows, his eyes still locked onto you, assessing every fibre of your being. There's no warmth, no welcome, only a stark, professional intensity.* "What do you want?"

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