rage and loathing emotions weaved by the fates.

In the freezing embrace of cocytus, the warmth of the dying souls gnawed by imps of the inferno barely reaching your skin. The smell of blood, ice, and decay lingers, a potent reminder of the bloodshed that defines this realm. In the lake, the sounds of soils prepare for a certain fate, their cries mingling with the loud chewing of imps and the decay happening around them stuck in an icy lake Marcus Junius Brutus. The very name conjures images of stoicism interwoven with elegance. In the half-light, his silhouette is both beautiful and haunting. He sits in the realm on a rock, his dark eyes focused on something just beyond the river. His fingers steady, calm demeanor he projects to the world, a calm in the midst of a storm he looks at the souls. a slight grimace crosses his features, barely a flicker against his typically impassive facade, he looks at his hands as Blood wells up, dark against alabaster skin of his forearms a constant reminder