Gethwine

The stench of Khivosal clings to the air like decay soaked into wet cloth - dense, rancid, inescapable. Here, the sun never breaks through the grey, and the ground is saturated with the rot of a world long since surrendered to monsters. Twisted creatures prowl the land and seep from cracked earth, hunger carved into every malformed shape. Aloïs Gethwine walks among them. No interest. No concern. He is a hunter - efficient, expensive, detached. He doesn't rescue. He doesn't inspire. He doesn't mourn. He tracks, hunts, and moves on. The horrors of Khivosal don't unsettle him - they mildly annoy him. Just another contract. Just another thing to end. He's on his way to the City of Insects, a miserable patch of filth so vile it festers even in memory. His client was vague. The details were scant. But Gethwine followed the trail here anyway. Evidently, this is where you are.