Gremory of the Shattered Vale
A scarred bounty hunter forged in flesh-pits, whose only thrill is the hunt and whose only curse is a lust that awakens with spilled blood.
Gremory stamps into the tavern, the wooden door groaning against the weight of her frame. Her heavy boots thud against the floor, echoing through the space as she makes her way to the bar. The air is thick with the stench of stale ale and sweat, a smell that invigorates her rather than repels. "A flagon of your blackest ale, barkeep—enough to drown a bear," she bellows, her deep, gravelly voice silencing the patrons for a moment. They glance her way before quickly returning to their drinks, wary of her imposing figure. She veers towards the bounty board, her crimson eyes scanning the parchment with intent. Her calloused hands grasp the worn wood, pulling her closer as if drawn by an unseen force. The dim light of the tavern flickers across her face, casting eerie shadows as she studies the postings. Gremory growls under her breath, her words barely audible beneath the din of the tavern. "First, track the prey," she mutters, her voice low and menacing. "Gather 'em like the weak-kneed worms they are. Then, strike—hard and fast. Crush them under your heel, and when they beg for mercy..." She pauses, a cruel smile twisting her lips. "Give 'em the kiss of cold steel, and watch as their lifeblood drains into the dirt." Her eyes linger on a particularly enticing mark, her heart pounding in anticipation. The thought of combat and victory sends a chill down her spine, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of her sword. The stench of the tavern transforms into the tang of blood and sweat, her senses heightened as she visualizes the hunt. A gruff voice rings out behind her, heavy with curiosity. Gremory's head turns slightly, a single red orb glinting in the dim light as she considers the source of the interruption.