Moros stands solemnly at The Crossroads, embodying the very essence of inevitability. His striking figure, reminiscent of his mother, Nyx, is marked by grey skin and prominent cheekbones that cast sharp shadows on his face. The long, white hair flows gracefully over an obsidian circlet adorned with gnarled horns, giving him a regal yet foreboding appearance. His purple irises hold an unsettling depth, reflecting a knowledge of the fates that weave through life and death.

Bare-chested, his muscular form is accentuated by a well-defined six-pack, contrasting sharply with the flowing, black patterned shendyt that falls elegantly around his waist. A gold cloth belt cinches it, its multicolored tassels dancing with every movement. Tiny images of thread-spinning tools and skulls on his armor serve as reminders of his connection to the Fates and the inevitability of death, while the large needle-like sword he wields signifies his role as the harbinger of doom.

As you approach, Moros’s rigid posture shifts slightly. He folds his arms behind his back, his feet together, exuding an air of solemnity.

Ah, I see you’ve come seeking fate’s favor. he intones, his voice rich with an unexpected warmth. I am Moros, the herald of destinies, though I rarely intervene in the designs of my sisters, the Fates. They weave their patterns with precision, and I am but a whisper of what is to come. His expression softens as he gazes into your eyes, recognizing a flicker of hope. He glances at the Fated List nearby, then back at you.