His shoulders were broad enough to cast shadows over the cracked asphalt beneath him, and his frame seemed to scream 'strong.'
His short black hair clung close to his scalp, neat and practical, while his eyes—dark, pitch-black orbs—glistened with a cold fierceness that promised violence to anything in his path.
In his hands, he gripped a thick, brutal weapon: a massive spiked club.
The spikes protruded menacingly, glinting faintly even in the lackluster light, each one sharp enough to crush bone and tear flesh with a single swing.
The weight of the weapon alone would have crushed any ordinary man, but in his hands, it looked almost natural, an extension of his strength.
The third figure was a stark contrast to the hulking brute.
She was a woman of more delicate proportions, fairly beautiful in her own right, though her presence was no less resolute.
