fury and blades

Something of a low, rumbling warning reverberates from the Metus, though he stands still now recognising the thrum of more magic in the air. He cannot see the flames, per say, yet the godforsaken predator can perceive their presence within his gloomy lair with miraculous acuteness. He is hesitating, visibly, as the shadows waver across his expressionless facade; flames ward them back ferociously, and with the retreating darkness he recoils.

The game is not up, mind due, he does not flee.

There is a grimness to his plight, lonely days spent in isolation, with nought but the clatter and rattle of his bone carpet to fill his thoughts. Despite the obvious, ominous spread before them, him—skulls, severed limbs and hide too withered to rot—visitors seldom colour the monotony of his bleak, black world; he yearns, half-starved, waiting for those unsuspecting few to take the wrong turn in the labyrinth beyond.

The Metus is not so foolish to waste any opportunity...

damnation prayer

image

@Kiada