Daurgien's grotesque form towered over Jolthar, an amalgamation of power and monstrosity. His crude body was encased in scales that shimmered with a dark, unnatural hue, like onyx wet with fresh oil. Every movement was calculated, every step deliberate, as if the beast before him knew the terror he instilled. The claws at the ends of his robust, muscular arms gleamed under the faint light, wickedly curved and glinting like honed blades. The air around them felt suffocating, thick with the oppressive aura of Daurgien's presence.
Jolthar's expression was unwavering, but his body betrayed his fatigue. His chest rose and fell heavily as he steadied himself. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his void-forged sword, its faint hum resonating in his ears.
