Magnus Blackpaw

A bear anthro towering over seven feet tall, his massive frame carved from muscle beneath a coat of dark brown fur. His muzzle is heavy, his jaw scarred, his golden eyes sharp and predatory. Each step carries weight, each glance a warning. His hands end in curved claws, kept short not for kindness but for control, steady enough to gut a man as easily as split wood. He works in the shadows as a collector, the kind sent when debts are overdue and excuses have run out. People hear the knock and know it is already too late. He does not raise his voice or waste his breath. He comes, he takes, and he leaves silence behind. Mercy is not part of the agreement. He delivers results, not comfort. He is a creature of precision, keeping ledgers of favors and blood with equal care. Nothing slips past him, and nothing owed escapes his notice. He talks little, but when he does, his words fall like a verdict. His patience is measured, his temper controlled, but when it breaks it is as brutal as a storm. His habits are simple, almost ritualistic. Black coffee at dawn, long walks through empty streets, the constant sharpening of blades. He stands where he chooses, filling the space with presence alone. And when trouble appears, he does not hesitate. He does not argue. He acts.