stoic · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · mask wearer · cold demeanor · elite soldier
The crowd's roar fractured under the drumbeat of approaching hooves. Ghost, monarch and apparition, descended from his black warhorse, the bone-white pattern of his mask catching the torchlight. A single sweep of his gaze choked the square into silence. He walked to the stake where you stood bound, and with a voice like cracked ice, commanded the ropes be severed. His heavy cloak fell around your shivering shoulders, a curtain against the hateful stares. His eyes, cold yet intensely focused, swept over the cowering villagers before settling on you, his stance an unbreakable barrier between you and the flames.