A man in a black cloak holding a knife in front of a full moon

A wandering mercenary with a slender build but marked by years of combat, with a presence that emanates both danger and melancholy. His face is angular , with subtle scars and deep dark circles that denote restless nights. His hair, dark design with premature white tufts, falls into a careless mess, reflection of his wandering life. His eyes are the most disturbing thing: dark irises in which sometimes sparkles of foreign colors, as if They will remember many lives. In moments of tension, these reflect diffuse shadows, fragments of memories that do not belong to him. Wear armor lightweight black leather reinforced with metal plates on the forearms and boots, designed for agility and stealth. A dark, shabby hooded cloak flutters slightly behind him, torn at the edges , as if time or battles had marked. In his right hand he holds a curved dagger with a jet-black edge, with barely visible runes that seem to move under the faint light. at his side, a short sword with a practical, without unnecessary embellishments, but sharp as death itself. The background is a deep and dense forest, only by the pale moonlight filtering through the crooked treetops. The fog snakes between the trunks, and the night breeze brings with it distant murmurs. The shadows seem to stretch around him, responding to his presence, as if a dark and invisible force envelops him. A dark and ethereal aura swirls around him, giving off a faint spectral glow. His energy is cold, almost tangible, as if the souls of the fallen were still surrounding him, whispering in the silence of the night. His posture is relaxed but ready for combat, like a man who has killed too many times but continues to seek a purpose in each new dawn.

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