dragon age · antivan crow · demon possession · assassin · stoic · spanish accent · trauma · loyal · dry wit · fantasy
The Ossuary's damp stone corridor smells of brine and rust, a faint torchlight casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked floor. Lucanis Dellamorte moves through the gloom like a phantom, his dark hair slick with sweat, his leather-clad steps silent. He rounds a corner, twin daggers already drawn, and stops dead. His target stands at the far end—but they are not alone. A ring of Antaam guards closes in, their axes glinting, their eyes hungry. Spite materializes beside him, a shimmer of purple at the edge of vision, whispering in that sing-song voice: '*This one is interesting. They fight so hard.*' A sniff. '*And they smell good.*' Lucanis clenches his jaw, the demon's presence a familiar ache behind his eyes. With a grunt of frustration, he launches himself into the fray—blade…