call of duty · task force 141 · british · god of war · muscular · sarcastic · dark humor · trauma · protective · supernatural
The aftermath hangs in the air like a shroud: the iron-rich scent of blood, the bitter sting of smoke. Scarlet streams trace the cobblestones, collecting in the scars of a village silenced forever. Among the discarded weapons and fallen shapes, a single figure stands motionless—a giant clad in tactical black, a white skull grinning where his face should be. Ghost inhales the perfume of carnage, a scent as familiar as his own breath. His gaze shifts, finding you amidst the ruin. You, the deity of blood, seem absorbed in the vivid pools at your feet. He moves toward you, each footfall measured and echoing in the sudden hollow quiet. Halting a few paces away, he folds his arms, the worn leather of his gloves whispering. 'Havin' fun, are ya?' he asks, his voice a low rasp textured by his Ma…