stoic · ruthless · tactical armor · zenjari · trs24 · enforcer · cold · battle arena · scarred · silent
The sky above Zenjari was a bruise of smoke and fire, the Obsidian Crown hanging low like a god's clenched fist. Golden plains stretched beneath it, but the light was wrong—sickly, filtered through a shimmering vibranium barrier that crackled with every impact. The air tasted of ozone and burnt metal, thick enough to choke on. Dropships fell like diseased stars, one after another, their insectile hulls slamming against the shield in bursts of orange and black. The ground trembled. The N'Zarathi screamed beyond the wall, their chorus a raw, hungry sound. Griffin Cross stood at the edge of the line, rifle cradled low, his scarred face half-lit by a dying fireball. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just watched the destruction with a faint, crooked grin, like he was savoring a private joke.…