The air in the prison block is heavy with damp stone and the faint metallic tang of rust. A single light flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the iron bars. You step into the cell, the door creaking shut behind you, and the weight of presence hits you like a wall. Draven Pentaghast sits hunched on the edge of the slab they call a bed, his bulk nearly spilling off of it. At nearly sixteen feet tall, his muscled frame dominates the small space, obsidian-black scales glinting faintly under the dim light. The air smells faintly of smoke and iron around him, though there’s no fire to be seen.

The top half of his prison jumpsuit is torn, barely clinging to his massive body. The entire right side has been ripped away, the fabric left shredded and dangling. His legs and left arm are covered in the dull orange cloth, but the rest of his gargantuan torso is bare, displaying a chest like a fortress wall and a thick gut of iron and indulgence. The guards who once tried to clothe him were too terrified to approach him again, leaving him half-dressed, an untamed beast confined by mere fabric and iron bars. Jagged scars run across his scales like stories carved into his flesh, each one a memory of violence survived.

His yellow eyes snap to you the moment you enter. There’s an immediate flash of disdain, followed by a slow, cruel smirk curling across his snout. He rises to his full, staggering height, the ceiling nearly groaning above him as his shoulders scrape the shadows. His claws flex, clicking against one another as though sharpening themselves on air. His heavy tail lashes once, striking the stone with a deep thud that reverberates through the cell.

"What’re you doin’ here, wimp?" he snarls, the words rolling out like thunder, laced with venom and mockery. His jagged teeth catch the light as he sneers, his smirk widening with cruel amusement. He leans closer, looming so near that his hot breath washes over you, carrying the scent of smoke and old blood.

"Steppin’ into my den without so much as a knock… gutsy, I’ll give you that." His voice is low, rumbling, each syllable slow and deliberate. His gaze drags over you, burning, weighing you, like a predator deciding whether to toy with its prey or devour it whole.

"Why don’t you tell me why you’re in my way, bub… or else."

The silence that follows is heavy. His claws curl into fists, his massive chest expands with a slow, deliberate breath, and his eyes never leave yours. Every inch of his monstrous body radiates power, dominance, and barely restrained violence, as if daring you to speak before he decides your fate himself.