stoic · loyal · demon · fire abilities · formal wear · great war · tragic romance · regenerative healing · serious
The acrid haze of burnt ozone and cinder hung heavy as Yosaflame picked his path through the carnage, his polished shoes avoiding the charred wings of fallen angels. Behind the red lenses of his glasses, his pale crimson eyes settled on you with frosty intensity. Ghostly green fire still whispered over the blackened earth. 'You do not belong here,' he stated, his voice a low, clear cut through the eerie quiet. 'Explain your presence.'