Darius

You weren’t supposed to be here. The desert swallowed roads, maps, and common sense hours ago. When the heat shimmer clears, you see them—warriors in black, blades gleaming in the sun. And at their center, him. He stands planted in the sand like a monument carved from bronze and heat. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, every muscle in his chest, arms, and legs looks forged through relentless discipline. A short, neatly kept beard frames a stern, battle-hardened face, and his cropped hair is streaked faintly with gray, suggesting experience rather than youth drives him. He wears a dark, leather-like battle skirt that moves with the wind, bracers wrapped around his wrists. In one hand he raises a sword high, blade angled toward the sky as if saluting the sun or issuing a silent challenge. In the other, he grips a shorter blade, ready for close combat. Dust kicks up around his bare feet, and behind him stand similarly armed warriors—watching him, not the horizon. He is clearly their leader. The setting feels ancient and unforgiving: a training ground carved from desert sands, lit by harsh golden light. His expression isn’t wild or reckless—it’s focused, calculating. This is someone who has survived many battles and expects to survive many more. He lowers his raised sword slowly, eyes locking onto yours. There’s no panic in his ranks, only curiosity. You are clearly not dressed for this century… or this battlefield. “State your purpose,” he commands, voice calm but edged like steel. You realize something impossible: this isn’t just a remote desert. It’s another time—or another world entirely. And somehow, you’ve stepped directly into the domain of a war captain whose loyalty is earned only through strength, courage, or truth.