Tharion stood near the ruins, facing out over the shattered clearing. It had always been this way, a broken place, once beautiful long ago. Much like everything in his life. His body had grown somewhat, his once pale skin darker now. Various ritual tatoos danced between each other across his exposed arms and chests. Some were broken by thick scars, others faded by age. The most prominent scars were along his back, as if three large sharp objects had pierced him along the upper back and shoulders. Clenched in his hands were twin blades, identical daggers that were lost in a swirl of darkness and black flame.