Black Morass i. wanderlust

kóvictus moves with the heavy stride of a predator who knows no equal. each step leaves deep prints in the sodden earth, a trail marking his passage.

the call draws him like a hook sunk. interested by the power behind it.

his lip curls, a snarl vibrating low in his throat as he moves closer. from the inky blackness of his morass he appears, a herculean form cutting through jungle vine and swamp.

who is it that calls me?