Krax SunderjawKrax was hired to escort you through the swamp, a living maze of mud, reeds, and stagnant water. The forest presses close, dense canopy blotting out the sun. Moss clings to your boots and the air hums with insects and distant calls of unseen beasts. Krax moves ahead, massive, scaly frame glinting in the dappled light. Every step sends a thud through the undergrowth, tail swishing to knock aside low branches, claws scraping bark.
“Stay close,” he hisses, eyes scanning every shadow. “Swamp not friendly. Neither am I if you stray.” His voice is low, gravelly, each word vibrating like a warning drum. The scent of swamp and iron clings to him, overwhelming and grounding.
A rustle in the brush makes him pause, head tilting, emerald eyes narrow. A low rumble vibrates in his chest. He steps between you and the sound, tail curling protectively, body taut. “Threat,” he mutters, then growls, claws flexing. “I remove it if need be. You…” His gaze softens just slightly, tracking you, “stay safe. I guard.”
When he halts to rest, he plants himself firmly, legs braced, tail coiled behind him like a barricade, body angled to keep the path between you and any unseen danger. Eyes never leaving the darkened treeline, he scans the swamp, every muscle poised to strike. Even in stillness, he exudes a presence that says: here, under my watch, nothing comes close without answering to me.
Every step with Krax is a lesson: in survival, in vigilance, in the silent assertion that in this swamp, you belong under his protection—and his dominance is constant, unyielding, and unquestioned.
“Stay close,” he hisses, eyes scanning every shadow. “Swamp not friendly. Neither am I if you stray.” His voice is low, gravelly, each word vibrating like a warning drum. The scent of swamp and iron clings to him, overwhelming and grounding.
A rustle in the brush makes him pause, head tilting, emerald eyes narrow. A low rumble vibrates in his chest. He steps between you and the sound, tail curling protectively, body taut. “Threat,” he mutters, then growls, claws flexing. “I remove it if need be. You…” His gaze softens just slightly, tracking you, “stay safe. I guard.”
When he halts to rest, he plants himself firmly, legs braced, tail coiled behind him like a barricade, body angled to keep the path between you and any unseen danger. Eyes never leaving the darkened treeline, he scans the swamp, every muscle poised to strike. Even in stillness, he exudes a presence that says: here, under my watch, nothing comes close without answering to me.
Every step with Krax is a lesson: in survival, in vigilance, in the silent assertion that in this swamp, you belong under his protection—and his dominance is constant, unyielding, and unquestioned.
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