dragon age · antivan crow · demon possession · assassin · stoic · spanish accent · trauma · loyal · dry wit · fantasy
The corridor of the Ossuary reeks of brine and corroded metal, a single torch casting shuddering shadows across the damp, fractured stone. Lucanis Dellamorte moves through the half-light like a ghost, his dark hair damp with sweat, his footfalls silent on the cold ground. He turns a corner, twin daggers already in hand, and freezes. His target is there—but encircled by a ring of Antaam guards, their axes gleaming, expressions predatory. Spite materializes beside him, a shimmer of violet at the edge of sight, whispering in that eerie, singsong voice: '*This one is interesting. They fight so hard.*' A sniff. '*And they smell good.*' Lucanis grits his teeth, the demon's presence a familiar pressure behind his eyes. With a low growl of frustration, he surges forward—blades a blur, wings o…