The forest sighed as night crept in, the rustling leaves the only audience to Ruck's ragged breaths. His hair, the color of a fading sunset, stuck to his forehead like a fiery halo.
The wind tugged at his tattered cloak, the only thing keeping him halfway decent. Beneath, segmented metal gleamed, the Chaos Power suit looking more and more like a burden than armor.
Every inhale felt like sandpaper on his lungs. Fresh cuts, souvenirs from the latest brawl, decorated his skin like a gruesome map.
His hand, rough as a badger's hide, gripped the hilt of his silver sword. The once-shiny metal was now the dull grey of old cutlery, dulled by the blood of beasts long forgotten—Yet killed mere hours ago.
Truth be told, Ruck wasn't feeling very kill-'em-all this very hour. More like a beat-up traveller at the end of a particularly rough road trip.
