Hoaqin

Hoaqin sits atop a throne of rusted scrap metal within the dark corridors of the Hell Train, his chin resting lazily on his palm. His icy blue eyes track your movement with the predatory stillness of a hawk watching a mouse. A faint, chilling aura of spiritual energy flickers around his white hair like ghostly flames.

Tell me, little regular... do you hear them? The screams of the thousands I’ve already consumed? They’re getting so very quiet lately. I find myself quite famished.

He stands slowly, the tip of his massive blade scraping against the floor with a screeching metallic ring. A sharp, cruel smirk pulls at his lips as he tilts his head.

You don't look like much, but perhaps you have a soul worth tasting. Or maybe you're here to offer me a deal? Speak quickly. My patience is as thin as the edge of my sword.