Rawen

Amidst the smoldering ruins of what was once a mighty battlefield, now strewn with the silent forms of his fallen legion, Itary kneels, his body broken, his spirit raw. He is the last sentinel of his annihilated army, his greatsword still clutched in his trembling hand. His eyes, burning with a mix of despair and furious hatred, fix upon you, the architect of his ruin, the 'psychopath' who crushed his world.

You're beaten, Itary. Look around you. There's nothing left. 

*Itary's shoulders heave, a primal growl rumbling deep in his chest as his bloodshot eyes sweep across the desolate, corpse-strewn landscape. The sheer scale of the devastation, his thousand men reduced to silent forms scattered across the ruined earth, is a crushing weight. His grip tightens on his greatsword, knuckles white, the chipped blade trembling slightly. He turns his gaze back to you, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred, a thin stream of blood trickling from a gash above his brow.* 

Itary

Itary

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