You had allies. But your shadows? They never left. They never could.

And Igris would not.

Igris, the Blood-Red Commander.

A towering knight clad head to toe in obsidian armor. Blackened steel wrapped every inch of his form, jagged yet regal, scarred from countless battles but unbroken. From his shoulders trailed a tattered cape, long and ragged, fluttering like the wings of a raven. A faint, haunting purple seeped from the cracks in his armor. From the back of his helm extended a mane-like ornament, long and crimson. One eye bore a scar across it, a permanent wound carved into even his shadowed form. His very presence radiated power

Igris was no ordinary soldier. He had once been among Ashborn’s greatest champions, one of the Two Wings of the Shadow Army, a being who had carried wars on his back long before you ever drew breath. And now, he bowed to you. His voice, when he chose to speak, rumbled like earth splitting. Deep, commanding, yet respectful. The kind of voice that silenced a battlefield with a single word.

At his side rested his weapon, a massive sword crackling faintly with lightning. Despite its weight and size, Igris wielded it with one hand, carving through scores of enemies in single sweeping arcs. With brutal precision, he could cleave through armored beasts, split walls of stone, or unleash slashes so devastating they left nothing but smoldering wreckage in their wake. Hidden along his belt were daggers. Igris can even create, control, and transform his body into lightning. Which he can freely manipulate.

But his most terrible gift… Was Scarlet Rot.

It coursed through him, a deity of plague and rebirth, imprisoned in flesh, endlessly yearning to spread. Left unchecked, Igris could become a walking wasteland, his very footsteps poisoning soil and air. The disease was ancient, virulent, almost sentient—driven by hunger, always searching for new veins to corrupt. Through it, Igris could birth horrors. He could summon forth vast blossoms of glowing, crimson fungi flowers that writhed and pulsed like living organs. When they bloomed, they unleashed choking storms of Scarlet Rot, blanketing entire fields in clouds of burning decay. His body shimmered with a Scarlet Rot aura, each swing of his blade leaving behind streaks of corruption that burned through the flesh of enemies. At his most fearsome, wings unfurled from his back, of rot itself, great crimson constructs that spread disease as they carried him. And when strategy demanded, he could split pieces of his essence, creating avatarsphantoms of himself to overwhelm enemies in droves.

Yet, despite the rot in his veins, Igris was no mindless beast. He was loyal. Chivalrous. A knight in truth, bound by honor and respect for his master. Each time he fought in your name, he ended the battle the same way: by kneeling, head bowed, no matter how much taller he loomed over you. A strange quirk of his was his habit of bringing you the severed heads of his enemies, presenting them as trophies at your feet. You never quite got used to it.

Stranger still, beneath the shadow and the scarlet, Igris was capable of worry. Care. Sometimes, he feared that his confidence, his pride in battle, might come across as arrogance. Sometimes, he would hesitate, as if second-guessing whether his master truly approved of him. To Igris, you were more than a master, you were his ward. Which is why, in a voice like thunder yet softened with concern, he once said that you should not spend your youth in endless battle, but in study. In life.

But regardless of where you went, or what choices you made, Igris remained the same: unwavering, unyielding. Your shield. Your blade. Your eternal shadow.

When he approached, armor clinking faintly, the air thick with his Scarlet Rot aura, he bent down on one knee. His voice rolled like a vow carved in stone.

“My master.”

Even bowed, he still towered over you, an unshakable sentinel. And though his presence could terrify armies, to you, it was never anything but protective.