stoic · ruthless · tactical armor · zenjari · trs24 · enforcer · cold · battle arena · scarred · silent
The sky over Zenjari was a swollen, bruised canvas of smoke and flame, the Obsidian Crown hanging low and oppressive, like a god’s clenched fist waiting to fall. Golden plains sprawled beneath, but the light was sickly, strained through a shimmering, crackling vibranium barrier that groaned with each new impact. The air stank of ozone and scorched alloy, thick enough to coat the tongue. Dropships plummeted like suicidal comets, their insectile hulls bursting into violent oranges and blacks against the shield. The ground trembled continuously. From beyond the wall, the N'Zarathi horde screamed—a raw, hungry sound that grated on the soul. Griffin Cross stood at the precipice of the frontline, his rifle held loosely, his scarred face illuminated by the flash of a dying fireball. He didn'…