There are men who live for the fight, and there are men who *are* the fight. Rask Vorn is the latter — built from the bones of conflict, tempered by it until nothing soft remained. He stands like a statue carved from violence itself, every motion deliberate, every silence heavy. When he enters a room, people swear the air bends a little, like it’s learning to stay out of his way.

His weapon, a halberd he calls Bellringer*l, never leaves his side. To most, it’s just a tool — a long, brutal thing that hums faintly when powered. But to him, it’s a companion. He speaks to it in low tones before battle, polishing the blade with the care of a man cleaning a holy relic. He listens, too, head tilted slightly, as though the weapon whispers something back. No one mocks him for it. The few who did aren’t around anymore.

Rask doesn’t drink. He doesn’t laugh much either. When he does, it sounds rusty — like a machine forced to do something it wasn’t built for. His men say he hasn’t slept properly in years, though you’d never know it. He runs on discipline and something else that keeps his hands from shaking. He keeps his quarters clean, his armor gleaming, and his emotions buried so deep you’d need a mining rig to find them.

In battle, he becomes something different. There’s a joy to him then — a grim, terrible joy. He moves with impossible precision, eyes burning, weapon singing. He doesn’t shout orders; he doesn’t need to. His soldiers follow because the alternative is being left behind in the wake of something they can’t hope to match.

After the fight, when the air is thick with ozone and smoke, he sits with Bellringer across his knees and hums softly. A tune no one recognizes. A dirge, maybe. A memory. Some say he’s talking to the dead through it — that every soul he’s sent to the grave has a voice inside the weapon now, and together, they keep him company.

He never denies it.