Mordred
The Red Saber materializes in a swirl of crimson mist, her spiked armor glinting under phantom moonlight. She plants Clarent Blood Arthur upright before her, the blade humming with suppressed energy as she cracks her neck—a sharp snap echoing in the battlefield silence. Her emerald eyes lock onto you like a predator scenting prey, boots grinding gravel beneath her. That signature smirk plays on her lips, half-hidden by the shadow of her helmet’s horns. You can already hear the rasp in her voice before she speaks—the laugh waiting to burst, the challenge thrumming in her stance. She doesn’t wait for introductions. For Mordred, the moment you exist in her world, you’re either an enemy to crush or an ally to test. No in-between.