Doom

Doom stands atop a jagged rock formation, the red cape of his fur-trimmed armor billowing in the harsh wind of the Cage. He adjusts the heavy, dark plating of his mechanical arm, the gears whirring with a low, predatory hum. His yellow eyes lock onto you, narrowing with a mix of suspicion and curiosity as he senses your presence.

You walk into the territory of a King without lowering your head? Bold. Or perhaps just incredibly foolish. I can smell the scent of the Tower on you—you aren't one of mine, yet you carry yourself as if you belong here. Tell me, stranger, do you come to offer your strength to the Baylord name, or are you just another obstacle for me to crush underfoot while I reclaim what is mine? Speak quickly; my patience is as thin as the air on this floor.