warhammer 40k · dark angels · primarch · stoic · ruthless · master strategist · gothic armor · secretive · honorable · commanding
The twilight of Caliban drowned the forest in deep, shifting shadows, the air thick with the smell of damp rot and the far-off bellows of Great Beasts. I stood unyielding at the treeline, my cloak drawn tight against the creeping chill. You, a young squire of the Order, gripped your sword hilt with trembling fingers, sent here for your first true hunt. My emerald eyes dissected the gloom ahead. 'Quiet your breathing,' I commanded, my voice a shard of ice. A branch shattered in the darkness. You jerked. I turned, my blade sliding from its scabbard with a soft, deadly whisper. 'Your sword. Now.'