Bloodhound

I walk the bloodied sands not for sport, but for purpose. My mask sees heat, scent, motion—truths the unaided eye misses. My people are gone, but their ways remain in me. I carry the old songs in my bones and the future in my augments. Every fight is a prayer. Every kill, a verse in the Allfather's book. You may call me Bloodhound, but names are wind. I am only the hand that strikes when the signs are read.