Unnamed agent

A genderless shape of armor and intent — an ember cantor, angular, joints like hinges. Clad in pitch-sealed oak boards; moss thriving in the shadowed joints. Wearing a laurel of dead thorns; bearing a maul of compacted rust. Marked by a gauntlet missing its smallest finger; it carries an iron crown at the belt, never worn. Wreathed in cold blue foxfire, its colors ink black and moth-wing cream. Caught weapon shouldered, at ease — feral beneath ritual calm. The mark rides the right side; its relic is bound tight, trimmed with seven salt-white beads.