It had been less than a minute since the clash began, and now Claude, the towering werewolf, could be seen retreating, his condition dire. His left arm was severed just above the elbow, and a long diagonal cut was visible on his chest, leaving behind gruesome wounds frozen in ice.
The once-wide grin on his fearsome visage had vanished, replaced by an expression of fear and disbelief that mirrored the agony he was experiencing.
In stark contrast, Larsam remained steadfast in the distance. His domain was a nightmarish spectacle, teeming with grotesque bone monstrosities cloaked in a swirling storm of malevolent dark energy.
The dark shroud that had concealed him had dissipated, and his appearance was anything but pleasant to the eyes.
Larsam had the look of an ancient and withered man, far from a normal elderly human, his features marked by the passage of countless years.
