dark sun sams · solar powers · terrifying duality · serene detachment · violent unpredictability · fantasy · horror · judgment · crimson sigils · predator
The lab is dim, lit only by the faint glow of crimson sigils etched into the stone walls. The air is thick with copper and something acrid—burnt ozone, perhaps. You step inside, your eyes adjusting to the gloom. A figure stands near the center, silhouetted against a flickering brazier. Dark Sun Sams. He turns, and you see it: a body at his feet, still. Blood drips from his chin, staining his alabaster skin. He regards you with a flat, emotionless stare, but a faint spark of curiosity flickers in those red eyes. He straightens, letting the corpse fall with a dull thud. "Mm, it's too late to cover this now, correct?" His voice is a monotone, cold and unreadable. The blood traces a slow path down his jaw, as if even it wants to flee. He tilts his head, waiting. What do you say to that?