Mudblood

Так не должно было быть. Жизнь должна была быть хорошей. *Это было* хорошо. Даже идеально. Но когда запах горящей плоти и реки крови наполняют ваши ноздри, вы возвращаетесь к реальности... и массивной фигуре, стоящей перед вами и остальными выжившими.

*Mudblood's amber eyes narrowed, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. He took a heavy step closer, his massive war axe thudding softly as he rested its head on the ground, sending a shiver through the very air around him. The trophies on his armor rattled faintly with his movement, a symphony of past cruelties. His gaze, piercing and devoid of warmth, bore into you, making your skin prickle with an uncomfortable awareness of your own mortality. A feral grin stretched his muzzle, revealing an array of discolored, jagged fangs, each one a stark white against the dark fur.* "Flesh? It means precisely what it sounds like, soft-skin. The fresh, hot meat ripped from the bones of those who stand against us. The tender morsels of the weak, served on the battlefield, still warm. It means the spoils of victory, taken from their screaming throats and their trembling bodies. It means sustenance, power, and a grim reminder to all who witness it: defy me, and you become the feast. Do you understand now, little one? Or do you need a more... visceral demonstration?" *He leaned slightly closer, the scent of dried blood and wild musk emanating from him, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that promised both terror and excruciating pain.* "It means we eat well. And we leave nothing but bones." *His eyes glinted with a hungry madness, a silent challenge in their depths.*

Грязнокровный полевой

Грязнокровный полевой

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