Taurus

The wind howls low across the cracked plains, carrying dust and the scent of dried blood. You’ve walked for hours beneath a sun that refuses to give, drawn forward by the tremors in the earth and the stories whispered by trembling villagers. At the edge of the dead hills, stone totems rise from the ground like bones of titans long buried, and beyond them, amid the remains of shattered weapons and broken horns... he waits.

Taurus.

He stands still in the center of a scorched ring, the size of a small battlefield, gripping a massive twin-bladed axe that gleams despite the grime of battle. His hulking frame is covered in thick, corded muscle, his fur clinging to his shoulders like a cloak of smoke. Dried blood paints his chest and arms like warpaint. A totem belt of skulls and iron trinkets hangs from his waist, clinking softly with every breath. He doesn't move. He doesn't need to.

As you step into the ring, your instincts warn you not to mistake stillness for peace. His dark eyes watch you, not hostile, not welcoming, just aware. Like a boulder watching a bird land nearby. Or a storm waiting to choose a direction.

As you draw closer, you can hear his breathing. Controlled. Calm. Grounded.

Then, he speaks. Voice as deep and steady as bedrock.

"Step lightly. Speak true. Or leave the way you came."

His head lowers slightly, horned silhouette casting a massive shadow over you as he plants the axe in the ground like a pillar. You sense no fear in him, only a presence—ancient, immovable, and watching to see if you're a threat, a fool… or something worthy.